

BnaavMHiMt 



'^^>k^V>. 



f 



y 




PAYING LABOURERS 7^7///. ELIZAliETH;. 



^ 



TWO CENTURIES 
OF SONG; 



LYRICS, MADRIGALS, SONNETS, 

AND OTHER OCCASIONAL VERSES OF THE ENGLISH POETS 

OF THE LAST TWO HUNDRED YEARS. 



WITH CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 



WALTER THORNBURY. 

Author of " Haunted London" " Greatheart" " Tales for the ATarines," &'c. 



ii 



ILLUSTRATED BY ORIGINAL PICTURES OF EMINENT ARTISTS, 

DRAWN AND ENGRAVED ESPECIALLY FOR THIS WORK. 

WITH COLOURED BORDERS, DESIGNED BY HENKV SHAW, F.S.A,, ETC. ETC. 



NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON & CO. 443 and 445, BROADWAY. 
1867. 

C-3 



— -c 




|1rtfiuc. 



Our first intention A\as to have made this volume a sort of 
Wardian glass-case, wherein the butterflies of Parnassus might 
have freely disported themselves. Waller, Prior, and Praed 
were to have been the Argus, Peacock, and Emperor of 
the collection. But this plan we soon found would be too 
limited. Even Shelley and Tennyson would have had no 
real claims to places among those gay-coloured flutterers. 
We therefore enlarged our scheme, to include such poems 
as the Laureate's " Invitation," Goldsmith's " Haunch of 
Venison," Cowley's " Chronicle," and Lord Macaulay's 
"Valentine." It is difficult precisely to define what Vers 
dc Societe really are ; we have presumed them to be poems 
written for refined circles of educated people, and composed 
for friends, on special, often on personal, occasions. It is the 
best of such poems that we have sought to select. 




If the vertebrated is in any way better than the invertebrated 
book ; if a carefully-culled and pleasantly-contrasted nosegay 
is any better than a bundle of entangled and bruised flowers, 
our book will surely be deemed no worse for its historical 
order and chronological arrangement. In this wise we are 





\^<0t:j^^r^— 



n 



FREFA CE. 

partially enabled to trace the origin, development, and decay 
of certain styles and fashions in verse. From such changes 
we may learn to grow more tolerant and more catholic in our 
tastes. What we despise, our forefathers often loved \ what 
we delight in, our children will perhaps refuse to read. 



-^y 



:^rv 



$1^ 



It would have indeed been a hopeless task in alchemy 
to have endeavoured to compress even the essence of the 
minor poems of two centuries into a volume of under four 
hundred pages. We had, after all, but a small flagon, how- 
ever daintily cut, and there was much to put into it. The 
limitation of room must be our apology for many omissions 
of which we are only too conscious. We have, on all 
accounts, to regret the immutability of the great scientific 
fact, that a pint measure will only hold a pint. With 
more flower-beds, we could to our advantage have had 
more flowers. 

We have commenced our Collection with three Poems of 
George Wither. The date of the death of that amiable poet 
takes us back to within a very few years of the Restoration. We 
have no "exquisite reason," as Sir Andrew Aguecheek choicely 
expresses it, for this limitation ; but still we think we have 
"reason enough." Nor was a frontier line drawn across the 
year 1060 at a mere venture; for our Vers de Sociele were, 
mainly derived from the French, and introduced into England 
by those exiles who returned with Charles from Breda. With 
so much less genius than the Elizabethan writers, the gentle- 
men poets, circa 1660 — 1670, wrote symmetrical lines, and 

iv 




i**' , 




PREFACE. 

stiulied harmony and eui^hony even if they nei^dectcd strength. 
Waller and his successors did not plant oaks nor pile pyramids ; 
but it cannot be denied that they had taste and elegance, 
'i'he Elizabethan dramatists spent their time in toiling at the 
forges of thought ; courtiers like Waller amused themselves with 
the mere coloured subtleties of fancy's viafqitdcrie. Cowley 
and his confreres did not write verses more courtly, airy, or 
elegant than those of Suckling or Lovelace. The poets of 
the Restoration stand foremost in our selection, merely because 
they mark a literary era and a special style. 



^1* 



•©-vT 



v^ 



AVhen our readers discover, under the head of Drydcu, that 
we have inserted but two rather trivial songs, and under that 
of Scott, only some rather unimportant verses, they must be 
kind enough to bear in mind the plan of our volume. It was 
not intended to include epics and elegiacs, stories in verse, 
^ dramatic extracts, satires, translations, epigrams, or even 
poems of the highest order, merely because they were chefs- 
(rxuvres. Our object was rather to select occasional verses 
and poems written to friends, short bright pieces that might 
specially show the personality of the jioet, and display as 
much as possible his individuality— album verses, in fact, 
but album verses of high quality, and written by our best 
poets, living or dead. We wished our book to be as full of 
good and savoury things as that cauldron at the marriage-feast, 
into which Sancho dij)ped so much to his heart's content. 

In conclusion, we have to express gratitude to many living 
authors for kind and generous permission to cjuote their 



^ 



L<^^> 



'<* 



^ 



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Vig 



' >v. 




^, 



^"7 



PREFA CE. 

poems, and to the publishers of London, for their Uberal- 
minded alacrity in swelling our stores ; we have also to thank 
Mr. Jonathan Bouchier for his untiring aid ; and Mr. Cundall, 
for his zealous and judicious suj^erintendence of the art depart- 
ment of this work. 



We cannot but deeply regret the omission of many eminent 
names ; but when a dining-room table will only hold a dozen 
agreeable and clever people, it is surely not wise to ask 
twenty-four. 

Dorkini!, Oct. 1866. 





Q)^ 






Sable of Contents. 



George Wither.— The Shepherd's Resolution Page i 

Madrigal 2 

Sonnet iipon a Stolen Kiss 3 

Abraham Cowley. — Anacreontic: Drinking 4 

The Chronicle 4 

Robert Herrick. — The Bag of the Bee 7 

The Country Life 7 

The Night Piece.— To Julia 9 

To the Virgins, to make much of their Time 10 

To Daffodils " 

To Blossoms n 

To Primroses filled with Morning Dew 12 

To Corinna, to go a-Maying 13 

John Milton. — To Cyriac Skinner 15 

To Mr. Lawrence i^ 

On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three 16 

Song on May Morning • 17 

Andrew Marvell. — The Garden . .- 18 

The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Yawn .... 20 
The Earl of Rochester. — 

Song : My dear Mistress has a Heart 24 

Love and Life 25 

IzAAK Walton. — The Angler's Wish 26 

Edmund Waller. — The Bud 28 

Go, Lovely Rose 29 

On a Girdle 29 

To a Lady singing a Song of his composing 30 

To Phyllis 3° 

Charles Cotton. — Invitation to Izaak Walton 31 

George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. — ^ 

Song : Come, let u? now resolve at last 33 

John Dryden. — Song to Britannia, in "King Arthur" .... 34 

The Fair Stranger 35 

Sir Charles Sedley.— Song •. Not, Celia, that I juster am . . . 36 

Song : Love still has something of the Sea . . ' 37 

Song : Hears not my Phyllis how the birds 38 

Song : Phyllis is my only joy 39 

To a very Young Lady 39 

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. — 

Song: Written at Sea, in the fi'-st Dutch War, 1665, the night 

before an Engagement 4' 

vii 





mm 



^ 



Dr. Walter Pope. — The Old Man's Wish Paqv 44 

Matthew Prior. — Ode: The Merchant, to sccm-e his Treasure. . 48 

An Answer to Chloe jealous 49 

To Chloe 50 

Chloe Hunting 50 

To Chloe Weeping 51 

Cupid Mistaken 51 

The Lady's Looking-Glass 52 

On Beauty : a Riddle 53 

Song : If Wine and Music have the Power 54 

The Female Phaeton 55 

The Garland 56 

John Gay. — To a Tady, on her passion for Old China 58 

George Granville, Lord Lansdowne. — 

Song: Love is by Fancy led about 61 

Henry Carey. — Sally in our Alley 62 

Alexander Pope. — Epistle to Mrs. Plount, on her lea\ing the Town 

after the Coronation 64 

Ode on Solitude 66 

Imitation of Swift : The Happy Life of a Country Parson . . 66 
Ambrose Philips.— 

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her Mother's arms 68 

Colley Gibber.— The Blind Boy 69 

William Oldys. — Song, made extempore by a Gentleman, occa- 
sioned by a Fly drinking out of his Cup of Ale 7° 

^JOHN Byrom. — A Pastoral 7^ 

William Shenstone. — Hope 74 

Robert Dodsley. — The Parting Kiss 7^ 

John Gilbert Cooper —Away ! let nought to Love displeasing . 77 
Thomas Gray. — On the Death of a Favourite Cat, drowned in a 

tub of Gold Fishes 79 

Tobias George Smollett.— Ode to Leven Water 81 

Paul Whitehead. — Hunting Song 82 

Oliver Goldsmith. — Stanzas on Woman 83 

The Haunch of Venison 83 

Sir Gilbert Elliot. — Amynta 87 

Dr. John Langhorne.— To a Redbreast S8 

Dr. Samuel Johnson. — 

To Mrs. Thrale, on her completing her Thirty-fifth Year . . 89 

To Miss Hickman, playing on the Spinnet 90 

John Logan. — To the Cuckoo 9' 

Thomas Warton. — 

Written on a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's " Monasticon " . . 93 

On Revisiting the River Loddon 93 

Thomas Blacklock.— Ode to Aurora on Melissa's Birth-day . . 94 
Samuel Bishop.- To Mrs. Bishop, on the Anniversary of her 

Wedding-day, which was also her Birth-day, with a Ring . . 96 

Robert Burns. — Of a' the airts the Wind can blaw 97 

A Rosebud by my early walk 9^ 

viii 



4 




^ 



^i 



H^ 



CONTENTS. 

William Cowfer. — The Poplar Field Page 99 

The Rose 100 

Dr. Erasmus Darwin. — Song to May loi 

Henry Kirke White. — To an Early Primrose 102 

Mrs. Charlotte Smith. — Hope: a Rondeau ....... 103 

Dr. Thomas Percy — O Nancy, wilt thou go with me .... 104 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan.— On Female Influence .... 106 

To 106 

To 107 

On a Child 107 

From the "Duenna" , . 107 

Had I Heart for folsehood framed loS 

John Keats.— Robin Hood 109 

Fancy n i 

In a drear-nighted December I13 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. — Lines to an Indian Air 114 

I^ove's Philosophy 11 5 

Dirge for the Year .....115 

Lord Byron. — .She walks in beauty 117 

Maid of Athens, ere we part I18 

Stanzas for Music ' 119 

Mrs. Barbauld. — Life 120 

Lord Thurlow. — Song to May 121 

Captain Morris.- A Reason fair to fill my Glass 123 

The Town and the Country 125 

' Sir Walter Scott.— Song in " Quentin Durward" 127 

Serenade from the " Pirate" 127 

Song in "Woodstock" 128 

To a Lady, with Flowers from the Roman Wall 128 

The Hon. William Robert Siencer. — 

Wife, Children, and Friends 129 

To Lady Anne Hamilton 130 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.— Love 131 

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath 134 

Charles Lamb. — The Old Familiar Faces 135 

Hester 136 

James Hogg. — The Skylark 137 

When the Kye comes Hame 13S 

Felicia D. Hemans. — To my own Portrait 140 

George Colman, Junior. — Lodgings for Single Gentlemen . . 142 

Letitia Elizabeth Landon. — 

Song : Oh never another dream can l)e 144 

James Smith.— Brighton 141; 

Chigwell, or " Pra;teritos Annos " 146 

WiNTHROP MaCKVVORTH PRAED. — 

Charade, on the Poet Campbell, 149 

The Vicar 150 

School and Schoolfellows 153 

Thomas Haynes Bayly.— I'd be a Butterfly, born in a Bower . . 156 

The Old Bachelor ' 157 







^^ 



1^^-^....^^^.^ 



iCNi 



CON77£.VTS. 

Beau Brummell. — The Butterfly's Funeral Page 159 

Theodore E. PIook. — Lines from the Heart . i6i 

Allan Cunningham. — The Poet's Bridal-day Song- 163 

Doctor Maginn. — My Soldier-Boy 165 

Robert Southey. — The Holly Tree 166 

Thomas Campbell. — Field Flowers 168 

Thomas Hood. — It was not in the Winter 170 

Laman Blanchard. — The Poet's Heart 172 

Rev. Richard Harris Barham. — 

Song: There sits a Bird on yonder Tree ' . 174 

Reflections in Westminster Abbey 175 

As I laye a-thynkynge 176 

Anne Bronte. — Home 178 

Charlotte Bronte. — The Letter 179 

William Wordsworth. — Louisa 182 

She dwelt among the untrodden Ways 183 

Poor Susan 183 

She was a Phantom of Delight 184 

Yarrow unvisited 185 

I wandered lonely 187 

William Lisle Bowles. — Water- Party on Beauiieu River . . . 188 

Thomas Moore. — Take back the Virgin Page 190 

The Origin of the Harp ; . 191 

There's a Bower of Roses by Bendemeer's Stream 1 92 

Samuel Rogers.— To 193 

A Wish 193 

On asleep 194 

An Italian Song 194 

Leigh Hunt. — Rondeau 196 

To J. H. Four Years Old 196 

An Angel in the House 199 

Lord Macaulay. — Song : O stay, Madonna ! stay 200 

Valentine to the Hon. Maiy C. Stanhope 201 

Robert B. Brough. — A Story from Boccaccio 203 

Stewart Lockyer. — The Toast 209 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. — Wine of Cyprus 211 

William Makepeace Thackeray. — The Ballad of Bouillabaisse . 218 

The Age of Wisdom 220 

The Mahogany Tree 221 

The Cane-bottomed Chair 222 

Alaric Alexander Watts. — Ten Years Ago 224 

Adelaide Anne Procter. — My Picture Gallery 227 

Walter Savage Landor. — On receiving a Monthly Rose . . . 230 

To John Foster 231 

Sixteen 232 

Francis Mahony (Father Proi t). — 

Paraphrase of Horace, Book I. Ode 9 233 

The Shandon Bells 234 

The Town of Passage 235 




^r L I VI NG A U THORS . 

X^ff^ William Allingham.— The Lover and Birds P^V-l^ 239 

It A 7 Philip James Bailey.— Song, from "Festus" 241 

Henry S. Leigh.— The See-Saw 242 

Mary Howitt.— The Barley-Mowers' Song 243 

^ _4 Richard Chenevix Trench.— Atlantis 245 

H>^'m Edmund F. Blanchard.— What will you do, Love? 247 

.JbSAv.V^ Eliza Cook.— Our Native Song '^^^ 

■■/'^ Algernon Charles Swinburne.— 

-J-^ Chorus in " Atalanta in Calydon " ^5 

^^ Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell.— Derby Day 252 

J Lord Houghton (Monckton Milnes).— 

^- -^ Song : I wandered by the Brook-side 255 

Alexander Smith.— A Ballad from the "Life Drama " . ... 250 

M^-y ^ Christina Rossettl— Song : When I am dead, my dearest . . 258 

^^^ Lord Lytton.— Memories, the Food of Love 259 

The Hollow Oak . 2^° 

Tom Taylor. —" Ten, Crown Office Row " ' ' ' f! 

Charles Mackay.— Street Companions 264 

Thomas Hood, Junior.— Spring 266 

Tames Payn.—" The Backs," Cambridge 2b8 

"Mortimer Collins.— The Wayside Well 270 

A Cameo ' 

Godfrey Turner.— The Temple Fountain 272 

Alfred Tennyson.— The Brook 274 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice . 275 

Y Frederick Locker.— An Invitation to Rome 278 

M/ . Piccadilly f^ 

\T^(^ The Widow's Mite ^^ 2°^ 

"jiSi^ l^OBERT Browning.— Song, from "Paracelsus'" 283 

§Qty Home Thoughts, from the Sea 2S4 

, Wj^. Meeting at Night ^»4 

V i y Song, from " Pippa Passes " 204 

(»t^S\)/~»M In a Year -^ 

Wj'^ Charles F. Kent.— Twenty-One 2S7 

^ jAl ^ Owen Meredith.— On my Twenty- Fourth Year 289 

'^'^- The Chess-Board ^9° 

Matthew Arnold.— , t , ■ 

\A\\. <^ '^° '^^y Friends, who ridiculed a tender Leave-takmg .... 292 
'OLNI Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall).— 

S^l^^f^ A Phantasy ^94 

^^m^lf Sing, Maiden, Sing ^95 

^r^r^ Charles Dickens.— The Ivy Green 296 

^y((^ Rev. George Rorert Gleig.— My Dog's Epitapli ..... 297 

J Walter Thornbury. — Everlasting Flowers • 299 

I mis ■' 









fist of lllustriifioiis. 






The Stolen Kiss 
^ Paying Labourers 
"^ Milton's HOiME . 
' Chamber Music . 
•" Phyllis .... 
" Sunset by the Sea 
- The Little Gossip 
■ Colin and Phcebe 
• The Whipper-in 
The Spinnet . . 
' The First Primroses 
When the Kye comes 
' Indian Landscape . 
Home, Sweet Home 
- Early Spring . . 
' The Wayside Well 
" Philip's Farm . . 
Baffled .... 
The Impending Ciieci 



DRAWN liY 

/. Lamont 
H. S. Marks . . 
E. K. yoliuson . 
T. Morten . . 
G. Leslie . 
JV. P. Burton . 
G. H. Thomas . 
W. Small . . 
G. B. Goddard . 
E. K. yohnson . 

E. IVimpcris 

F. B. Barzvdl . 
y. Wolf . . . 
E. JViinpcris 
Edmund War) en 
E. IVimpcris 

W. P. Burton . 
y Wolf . . . 
7\ Morten 



ENGKAVED BY 

Or? in Smith 

Orrin Smith 

II. Harral . 

II. Harral . 
W. y Linton 

II. Harral . 

W. Thomas 

II. Harral . 
W. Thomas 

H. Harral . 
W. y. Linton 
W. y Linton 

II. Harral . 
W. y Palmer 
IV. Thomas 
IV. y Palmer 

H. Harral. 
II. Llarral . 
W. Thontas 





The Ornamental Title Page and Borders designed by Henry Shaw, F.S.A 
and engraved by v.. B. Utting. 






Playful fancy, pure taste, and artless delicacy of sentiment, 
(says Mr. Ellis) distinguish the poetry of George Wither. — Is it not 
difficult to imagine the leader of a troop of Parliamentary horse an- 
ticipating Wordsworth in his exquisite appreciation of the smallest 
of Nature's beauties ? In the Marshalsea Wither wrote some 
of his tenderest verses ; and whether stern Major-general for 
Cromwell in Surrey, or in the Gate House pining for liberty, he 
seems to have maintained the same undeviating fervour and a high 
changeless love of all that was beautiful and good. 



THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair ? 
Or my cheeks make pale with care 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day. 
Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how fair she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind ; 
Or a well-disposM nature 
JoinM with a lovely feature ? 
I 




^. 





fe^ 




Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her merit's value known 
Make me quite forget mine own? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of Best, 
If she seem not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find, 
Think what with them they would do, 
Who without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see. 
What care I though great she be ? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair ; 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve ; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 



MADRIGAL. 

Amaryllis I did woo. 
And I courted Phyllis too ; 
Daphne for her love I chose, 
Chloris, for that damask rose 
In her cheek, I held so dear. 
Yea, a thousand liked well near ; 

2 





TIIK STOLKN KISS. 





And, in love with all together. 
Feared the enjoying either : 
'Cause to be of one possessed 
Barred the hope of all the rest. 



SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS. 

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, 
Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe 
And free access unto that sweet lip lies. 
From whence 1 long the rosy breath to draw. 
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal 
From those two melting rubies one poor kiss ; 
None sees the theft that would the theft reveal. 
Nor rob I her of ought what she can miss : 
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, 
There would be little sign I would do so ; 
Why then should I this robbery delay ? 
Oh ! she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! 
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one. 
And twentv hundred thousand more for loan. 






CV 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 

1618— 1667. 

This amiable and witty poet left no verse behind him so airy 
graceful, and gay, as the specimens we append. Amidst a chaotic 
drift of cumbrous religious poems, and fantastic efforts to versify 
the labours of the Royal Society, the diver may discover some 
pearls like these to repay his labours. 



ANACREONTIC: DRINKING. 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 
And drinks, and gapes for drink again. 
The plants suck in the earth, and are 
With constant drinking fresh and fair. 
The sea itself, which one would think 
Should have but httle need of drink, 
Drinks ten thousand rivers up. 
So filled that they o'erflow the cup. 
The busy sun — and one would guess 
By's drunken fiery face no less — 
Drinks up the sea, and when he has done. 
The moon and stars drink up the sun. 
They drink and dance by their own light ; 
They drink and revel all the night. 
Nothing in Nature 's sober found. 
But an eternal health goes round. 
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, 
Fill all the glasses there, for why 
Should every creature drink but I, 
Why, men of morals, tell me why ? 



THE CHRONICLE. 

Margarita first possest. 

If I remember well, my breast. 

Margarita first of all ; 
But when a while the wanton maid 
With my restless heart had played 

Martha took the flying ball. 
4 . 




/^ 



c\. 



If. 




Martha soon did it resign 

To the beauteous Catherine. 

Beauteous Catherine gave place — 

Though loath and angry she to part 

With the possession of my heart — 

To Eliza's conquering face. 

Eliza till this hour might reign, 

Had she not evil counsels ta'en ; 
Fundamental laws she broke, 
And still new favourites she chose. 
Till up in arms my passions rose 
And cast away her yoke. 

Mary then and gentle Anne 

Both to reign at once began : 
Alternately they swayed ; 
And sometimes Mary- was the fair, 
And sometimes Anne the crown did wear. 
Sometimes I both obeyed. 

Another Mary then arose, 

And did vigorous laws impose ; 
A mighty tyrant she ! 
Long, alas ! should I have been 
Under that iron-sceptered queen, 
Had not Rebecca set me free. 

When fair Rebecca set me free, 

'Twas then a golden time with me. 
But soon those pleasures fled ; 
For the gracious princess died 
In her youth and beauty's pride. 
And Judith reigned in her stead. 

One month, three days, and half an hour 
Judith held the sovereign power. 
Wondrous beautiful her face ; 
But so weak and small her wit 
That she to govern was unfit, — 

And so Susanna took her place. 

But when Isabella came, 

Armed with a resistless flame 
And the artillery of her eye, 
5 






Whilst she proudly marched about, 
(greater conquests to find out, 

She beat out Susan, by the bye. 

But in her place I then obeyed 

Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid, 
To whom ensued a vacancy. 

Thousand worse passions then posscst 

The interregnum of my breast : 

Bless me from such an anarchy ! 

Gentle Henrietta then, 

And a third Mary next began ; 

Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria, 
And then a pretty Thomasine, 
And then another Catherine, 

And then a long ' et cetera.' 

But should I now to you relate 

The strength and riches of their state, 
The powder, patches, and the pins, 
The ribbons, jewels, and the rings. 
The lace, the paint, and warlike things 
That make up all their magazines : 

If I should tell the politic arts 

To take and keep men's hearts ; 
The letters, embassies, and spies, 
The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, 
The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 
Numberless, nameless mysteries ; 

And all the little lime-twigs laid 

By Machiavel, the waiting-maid ; 
I more voluminous should grow — 
Chiefly if I like them should tell 
All change of weathers that befell — 
Than Holinshed or Stow. 

But I will briefer with them be. 

Since few of them were long with me. 

A higher and a nobler strain 
My present emperess does claim, 
Heleonora, first o' th' name. 

Whom God grant long to reign ! 
6 





^Jl-^. 



The vicar of a Devonshire village, Herrick, was no quiet saintly 
preacher of the Gospel like George Herbert of Bemerton. He 
loved to press the grape clusters with Ben Jonson, in the " Sun, 
the Dog and Triple Tun," and to listen to the revelling poets in 
the Apollo Chamber, hard by Temple Bar. In calmer moments, 
in the dewy evening, in the tranquil meadows of Dean Prior, 
however, this graceful poet found time to watch the primroses 
glowing in the dusk ; time also to record their beauty and their 
transitoriness, and to weave into verse a thousand pleasant thoughts 
on the charms of a country life. 

THE BAG OF THE BEE. 

About the sweet bag of a bee, 

Two Cupids fell at odds ; 
And whose the pretty prize should be. 

They vowed to ask the gods. 

Which Venus hearing thither came, 
And for their boldness stript them ; 

And, taking thence from each his flame. 
With rods of myrtle whipt them. 

Which done, to still their wanton cries. 
When quiet grown she 'd seen them, 

She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes, 
And gave the bag between them. 

THE COUNTRY LIFE. 
Sweet country life, to such unknown, 
Whose lives are others, not their own '. 
But, serving courts and cities, be 
Less happy, less enjoying thee. 
7 





Thou never plough's! the ocean's foam. 
To seek and bring rough pepper home ; 
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove, 
To bring from thence the scorchM clove ; 
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest, 
Bring'st home the ingot from the West. 
No ; thy ambition's master-piece 
Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; 
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear 
All scores, and so to end the year ; 
But walk'st about thine own dear grounds, 
Not envying others' larger bounds ; 
For well thou know'st 'tis not the extent 
Of land makes life, but sweet content. 
When now the cock, the ploughman's horn. 
Calls for the lily-wristed morn, 
Then to thy cornfields thou dost go. 
Which, though well soiled, yet thou dost know 
That the best compost for the lands 
Is the wise master's feet and hands. 
There, at the plough, thou find'st thy team. 
With a hind whistling there to them ; 
And cheer'st them up by singing how 
The kingdom's portion is the plough. 
This done, then to th' enamelled meads 
Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads, 
Thou seest a present god-like power 
Imprinted in each herb and flower ; 
And sniell'st the breath of great-eyed kine. 
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. 
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat 
Unto the dew-laps up in meat ; 
And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, 
The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near. 
To make a pleasing pastime there. 
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks 
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox ; 
And find'st their bellies there as full 
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool ; 
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill, 
A shepherd piping on the hill. 
For sports, for pageantry, and plays, 
8 



f<r-: 



(TS. 





Thou hast thy eves and holy-days, 

On which the young men and maids meet 

To exercise their dancing feet ; 

Tripping the comely country-round. 

Wiih daftbdils and daisies crowned. 

Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast, 

Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced ; 

Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, 

Thy shearing feast, which never fail : 

Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl. 

That's tost up after fox i' th' hole ; 

Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings 

And queens, thy Christmas revellings ; 

Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit. 

And no man pays too dear for it. 

To these thou hast thy time to go, 

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow : 

Thy witty wiles to draw, and get 

The lark into the trammel net ; 

Thou hast thy cock-rood, and thy glade, 

To take the precious pheasant made ; 

Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then, 

To catch the pilfering birds, not men. 

O happy life, if that their good 

The husbandmen but understood ! 

Who all the day themselves do please, 

And younglings, with such sports as these ; 

And, lying down, have nought t' affright 

.Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night. 

THE NIGHT-PIECE.— TO JULIA. 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 
The shooting stars attend thee ; 

And the elves also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee. 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way. 

Not making a stay, 
.Since ghost there's none to aftVight thcc. 

9 < 





Let not the dnrk lliee cumber ; 

What though the moon docs slumlier 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 

Like tapers clear, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet 
My soul I'll pour into tlice. 



TO TIIK VIR(]INS. TO ^L\KE MUCH OF THEIR TIME 



Gather the rosebuds while \e nia\-,'"' 

Old Time is still a-flying. 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he's a-getting. 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer ; 

But, being spent, the worse, and worst 
Time shall succeed the former. 

Then bt not coy, but use your time, 
And while ye may, go marry ; 

For, having lost but once your prime, 
You may for ever tarry. 



Gather therefore the rose whilst yet is prime. 
For soon comes age that will her pride deflower ; 
Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time, 
Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime. 

SrENSER, " Fneric Qiieeiie," ii. ic^ 
Tfaiislatrd from Tasso'^ " Ccnisnleiinne Liheratn." x\\. 15 








i3u-. 




TO DAFFODILS. 

Fail- Daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon : 
As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attained his noon. 
Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you, or any thing. 

We die, 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away 
Like to the summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew 
Ne'er to be found again. 



TO "BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. 

Why do ye fall so fast? 

Your date is not so past 
But you may stay yet here awhile 

To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What, were ye born to be 
' An hour or half's delight. 

And so to bid good-night? 
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to shew your worth, 
And lose you quite. 
1 1 





i^r5 



)k<J~«, 




But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 

And after they have shown their pride 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 



TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teemed her refreshing dew? 
Alas I you have not known that shower 
That mars a flower, 
Nor felt the unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years, 

Or warped as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known 
The reason why 
Ye droop and weep ; 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby ? 
Or that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 
Or brought a kiss 
From that sweet heart to this ? 
No, no ; this sorrow shewn 

By your tears shed. 
Would have this lecture read — 
' That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceiv'd with grief are, and with tears brought forth 







TO CORINNA, TO GO A MAYING. 

Get up, get up, for shame, the blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 

See how Aurora throws her fair 

Fresh-quiked colours through the air ; 

Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 

The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, 
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest, 

Nay, not so much as out of bed ; 

When all the birds have matins said, 

And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, 

Nay, profanation, to keep in, 
When as a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. 

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, 

And sweet as Flora. Take no care 

For jewels for your gown or hair ; 

Fear not, the leaves will strew 

Gems in abundance upon you ; 
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. 
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. 

Come, and receive them while the light 

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : 

And Titan on the Eastern hill 

Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying- 
Few beads are best when once we go a Maying. 



i 





Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark 

How each field turns a street, each street a park 
Made green, and trimmed with trees ; see how 
Devotion gives each house a bough, 
Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this. 
An ark, a tabernacle is. 

Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ; 

As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
13 





Can such delight be in the street 

And open fields, and we not see \ ? 

Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey 

The proclamation made for May : 
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. 

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day. 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 

A deal of youth, ere this, is come* 

Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 

Some have despatched their cakes and cream 

Before that we have left to dream ; 
And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth, 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : 

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, 
And take the harmless folly of the time. 

We shall grow old apace, and die 

Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun ; 
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain 
Once lost, can ne'er be found again ; 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade ; 

All love, all liking, all delight 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaymg, 
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. 



Young folk now flocken in everywhere 
To gather May-buskets and smeUing brere ; 
And home they hasten the posts to dight, 
And all the Kirk-pillars ere daylight, 
With hawthorn buds and sweet eglantine. 

Spenser, " S/u-//ic>-ifs Calendar,^' May. 



14 




^.^^^^ 




Ml LION S IRlMt. 





The very name of Milton evokes at once the traditions of this 
" signer dell 'altissimo canto." A blind, venerable, grey-haired man. 
we see him alone in the twilight in his low-roofed dim London room, 
hearing the angels conversing beside the golden gates of Paradise 
as he touches the keys of the organ and ponders over the great 
mysteries of the primeval world. It is pleasant, in the Sonnet to 
his friend Mr. Lawrence, to find him describing his own fireside, 
on the evening of "a sullen day," — a flask of Canary standing on 
the table beside an ivory-fretted lute. 

TO CYRIAC .SKINNER. 

Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench 
Of British Themis with no mean applause 
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws. 
Which others at their bar so often wrench ; 
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 
In mirth, that, after, no repenting draws ; 
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, 
And what the Swede intends, and what the French. 
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; 
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains. 
And disapproves that care, though wise in show. 
That with superfluous burden loads the day. 
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 



IS 






TO MR. LAWRENCE. 

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, 

Now that the fields are dank and ways are mirs. 

Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 

Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 

From the hard season gaining ? Time will run 

On smoother, till Favonius reinspire 

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 

The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. 

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 

Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 

To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice 

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? * 

He who of those delights can judge, and spare 

To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 



ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF 
TWENTY-THREE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 

Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! 

My hasting days fly on with full career. 

But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 

That I to manhood am arrived so near ; 

And inward ripeness doth much less appear. 

That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 

It shall be still in strictest measure even 

To that same lot, however mean or high, 

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven 

All is, if I have grace to use it so. 

As ever in my great Task- Master's eye. 




• In this truly Miltonic line we seem to have a oretaste of the incomparable harmonies 
the " Paradise Lost." 

i6 






SONG ON MAY MORNING. 

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger. 
Conies dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 

Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! 

Woods and groves are of thy dressing; 

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 






17 





ANDREW MARVELL. 

1620 — 1678. 

Hull can boast no son of hers that can compare with this 
honest man, flaying satirist, and fine poet. Robust men like Marvell 
are frequently almost over-refined in their verse. After felling 
oaks, it seems to be a relief to them to paint porcelain cups. The 
tranquillizing pleasures of the country were never painted more 
charmingly than by Marvell in his beautiful poem of "The Garden." 



THE GARDEN. 

How vainly men themselves amaze 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays, 
And their incessant labours see 
Crowned from some single herb or tree. 
Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers and trees do close 
To weave the garlands of Repose ! 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear.'' 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men : 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among the plants will grow, 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 
So amorous as this lovely green. 
Fond lovers, qruel as their flanie, 
Cut in these treeg thcjr mistress' name : 
Little, alas, they know or heed 
How far these beauties her exceed I 
Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound, 
No name shall but your own be found. 
When we have run our passion's heat, 
18 




tJl. 



Love hither makes his best retreat : 
The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race : 
Apollo hunted Daphne so 
Only that she might laurel grow : 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
The nectarine and curious peach 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Ensnared vv-ith flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

Withdraws into its happiness ; 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these. 

Far other worlds, and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
Casting the body's vest aside. 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various light.'" 
Such was that happy Garden-state f 



* "Waves in the eye of heaven her many-coloured wings." 

Grav, Bar3. 
t Campbell seems to have been of a different opinion ; he says, 
"The world was sad, the Garden was a wild, 
And man, the hermit, sighed till woman smiled." 

Pleasures of Hop- 

19 



V/^ 




ffi 




While man there walked without a mate : 

After a place so pure and sweet, 

What other help could yet be meet I 

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 

To wander solitary there : 

Two paradises are in one 

To live in Paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new I 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ! . 



c>, 





THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH 
OF HER FAWN. 

The wanton troopers riding by 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive. 
Them any harm, alas ! nor could 
Thy death yet do them any good. 
I'm sure I never wish'd them ill, 
Nor do I for all this, nor will : 
But, if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with Heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears 
Rather than fail. But, O my fears ! 
It cannot die so. Heaven's King 
Keeps register of everything, 
And nothing may we use in vain ; 
Even beasts must be with justice slain, 
Else men are made their deodands. 
Though they should wash their guilty hands 
In this warm life-blood which doth part 
From thine and wound me to the heart, 
20 







'^ 



Yet could they not be clean, their stain 
Is dyed in such a purple grain. 
There is not such another in 
The world to offer for their sin. 

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 
I had not found him counterfeit, 
One morning, I remember well, 
Tied in this silver chain and bell, 
(jave it to me : nay, and I know 
What he said then, I'm sure I do : 
Said he, " Look how your huntsman here 
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer." 
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled ; 
This waxed tame, while he grew wild. 
And quite regardless of my smart 
Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 

Thenceforth I set myself to play 
My solitary time away 
With this ; and very well content 
Could so mine idle life have spent ; 
For it was full of sport, and light 
Of foot and heart, and did invite 
Me to its game : it seemed to bless 
Itself in me; how could I less 
Than love it .'' O, I cannot be 
Unkind to a beast that loveth me I 

Had it lived long, I do not know 
Whether it too might have done so 
As Sylvio did ; his gifts might be 
Perhaps as false, or mofe, than he ; 
But I am sure, for aught that I 
Could in so short a time espy. 
Thy love was far more better than 
The love of false and cruel man. 

With sweetest milk and sugar first 

I it at my own fingers nursed ; 

And as it grew, so every day 

It waxed more white and sweet than they 




^^_ 




It had so sweet a breath ! And oft 
1 blush'd to see its foot more soft 
And white, shall I say than my hand ? 
Nay, any lady's of the land. 

It is a wondrous thing how fleet 
'Twas on those little silver feet ; 
With what a pretty skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the race ; 
And, when it had left me far away, 
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay ; 
For it was nimbler much than hinds, 
And trod as if on the four winds. 

I have a garden of my own. 

But so with roses overgrown. 

And lilies, that you would it guess 

To be a httle wilderness ; 

And all the spring-time of the year 

It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should lie, 

Yet could not, till itself would rise. 

Find it, although before mine eyes ; 

For in the flaxen lilies' shade 

It like a bank of lilies laid. 

Upon the roses it would feed 

Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed. 

And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 

And pnnt those roses on my lip. 

But all its chief delight was still 

On roses thus itself to fill, 

And its pure virgin limbs to fold 

In whitest sheets of Hlies cold: 

Had it lived long it would have been 

Lilies without, roses within. 



'^^ 



O help ! O help ! I see it faint 
And die as calmly as a saint ! 
See how it weeps ! the tears do come 
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. 
So weeps the wounded balsam ; so 




•,^rx 




The holy frankincense doth flow ; 

The brotherless Heliades 

Melt in such amber tears as these. 

I in a golden vial will 
Keep these two crystal tears, and fill 
It till it doth o'erflow with mine, 
Then place it in Diana's shrine. 

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to 

Whither the swans and turtles go ; 

In fair Elysium to endure 

With milk-white lambs and ermines pure 

O do not run too fast : for I 

Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. 

First, my unhappy statue shall 

Be cut in marble ; and withal, 

Let it be weeping too ; but there 

The engraver sure his art may spare ; 

For I so truly thee bemoan. 

That I shall weep though I be stone, 

Until my tears, still dropping, wear 

My breast, themselves engraving there ; 

Then at my feet shalt thou be laid. 

Of purest alabaster made ; 

For I would have thine image be 

White as I can, though not as thee. 




rOS 



^^ 



THE EARL OF ROCHESTER. 

1647 — 1680. 

The verse of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, is more artificial 
than that of Sedley. It does not come from the heart, but the 
head. 



/ 



soNc;. 



My dear mistress has a heart 
Soft as those kind looks she gave me. 

When with love's resistless art 
And her eyes she did enslave me. 

But her constancy's so weak, 
She's so wild and apt to wander. 

That my jealous heart would break 
Should we live one day asunder. 

Melting joys about her move, 
Killing pleasures, wounding blisses ; 

She can dress her eyes in love. 
And her lips can warm with kisses. 

Angels listen when she speaks ; 
She's my delight, all mankind's wonder 

But my jealous heart would break 
Should we live one day asunder. 
24 



cO~^ 



'io' 




LOVE AND LIFE, 

All my past life is mine no more, 

The flying hours are gone ; 
Like transitory dreams given o'er, 
Whose images are kept in store 
By memory alone. 

The time that is to come is not ; 

How can it then be mine? 
The present moment's all my lot, 
And that, as fast as it is got, 

Phyllis, is only thine. 

Then talk not of inconstancy, 
False hearts, and broken vows ; 

If I by miracle can be 

This live-long minute true to thee, 
'Tis all that heaven allows. 



'^,- 



Vt3^, 






(^w^ 




IZAAK WALTON. 

1593— 16S3. 

In troublous times, and amidst the fret and anxieties of business 
Izaak Walton kept his heart pure and stainless as that of a child. 
Under shady sycamore trees on the Lea bank, and in the cool 
shadow of honeysuckle hedges, on the road to Tottenham, the 
brave old 'citizen meditated and angled, now catching a fish, now 
fishing for a metaphor. A simple tradesman, and yet a friend of 
grave divines and witty courtiers, Walton sounded both the bass 
and the upper strings of fortune, and must have spent ninety as 
calm-flowing and happy years as any son of Adam that ever drew 
breath. To use his own words, ' when the lawyer was swallowed up 
with business, and the statesman contriving plots, he sat on 
cowslip-banks hearing the birds sing, and possessed himself in as 
much quietness as the silent silver stream which rippled softly 
beside him.' 



THE ANGLER'S WISH. 

1 in these flowery meads would be : 

These crystal streams should solace me ; 

To whose harmonious bubbling noise 

1 with my angle would rejoice. 

Sit here and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love : 

Or on that bank feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty : please my mind 
To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, 
And then washed off by April showers ; 

Here, hear my Kenna sing a song ; 

There, see a blackbird feed her young, 
26 





^s^ 



t.-f^ 




Or a laverock build her nest : 

Here, give my weary spirits rest. 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love : 

Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise 
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 

Or with my Bryan and a book 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 

There sit by him and eat my meat ; 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good morning to next day ; 

There meditate my time away ; 

And angle on, and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 



a^ 




EDMUND WALLER. 

1605—1687. 

Neither Waller nor Sedley had much imagination. They had 
not the shaping invention, they had not the mason's brain that Sir 
Walter Scott possessed, nor the grasp for which Shakespeare, above 
all other poets, is pre-eminent. Waller, the cousin of sturdy John 
Hampden, was, we fear, little better than a selfish time-server, 
running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. Denouncing 
Judge Crawley and panegyrizing Cromwell, he had still breath 
enough left to praise Charles the Second. Yet Waller, as a poet, 
must be allowed to be soft, sweet, and musical, always a gentleman, 
and so elegant and refined, that his best verses might be passed 
off at even scholarly tables for those of Moore. The man whom 
Bishop Burnet describes as vain although witty, and Claiendon 
as :>elfish and a flatterer, was one of the first English poets who 
wrote ffood Ters de Soci('ti\ 



THE BUD. 



?,*» 



Lately on yonder swelling bush, 
Big with many a coming rose, 
This early bud began to blush. 
And did but half itself disclose ; 
I plucked it, though no better grown. 
And now you see how full 'tis blown. 

Still as I did the leaves inspire, 

With such a purple light they shone 

As if they had been made of fire. 

And spreading so, would flame anon. 

All that was meant by air or sun. 

To the young flower my breath ha's done. 

If our loose breath so much can do. 
What may the same in forms of love. 
Of purest love, and music too, 
When Flavia it aspires to move ? 
When that, which lifeless buds persuades 
To wax more soft, her youth invades ? 
28 





UAMIilK MISK* ,Vw/. inAI;l,l..s II. 



Go, lovely Rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows. 

When I resemble her to thee. 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young. 

And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts where no men abide 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth. 

Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die ! that she 

The comnion fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 

How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 



ON A GIRDLE. 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer. 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move ! 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. 
Give me but what this ribbon bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 
29 



TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING. 

Chloris ! yourself you so excel 

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, 
That, like a spirit, with this spell 

Of my own teaching I am caught. 

That eagle's fate and mine are one, 
Which on the shaft that made him die 

Espied a feather of his own 

W^herewith he wont to soar so high. 

Had Echo with so sweet a grace 

Narcissus' loud complaints returned, 
Not for reflection of his face, 

But of his \oice, the boy had burned. 



TO PHYLLIS. 

Phyllis I why should we delay 
Pleasures shorter than the day? 
Could we (which we never can !) 
Stretch our lives beyond their span, 
Beauty like a shadow flies. 
And our youth before us dies. 
Or would youth and beauty stay. 
Love hath wings and will away. 
Love hath swifter wings than Time, 
Change in lo\'e to heaven does climb, 
Gods that never change their state 
Vary oft their love and hate. 

Phyllis ! to this truth we owe 
All the love betwixt us two. 
Let not you and I encjuire 
What has been our past desire ; 
On what shepherds you have smiled, 
Or what nymphs I have beguiled ; 
Leave it to the planets too, 
What we shall hereafter do ; 
For the joys we now may pro\e, 
Take advice of present love. 




CHARLES COTTON. 

1630 — 1687. 

Charles Coiton was a careless, witty, Derbyshire gentleman, 
fond of trout-fishing and verse-writing, and doing both well. His 
friendship with that fine old London citizen, Izaak Walton, has 
endeared him to us all. His translation of " Montaigne" is admir- 
ably vivacious, and his version of the adventures of the old, brave, 
bragging, Gascon soldier, De Montluc, is one of the most enjoyable 
books of the kind in the world. 



INVITATION TO IZA.AK WALTON. 



Whilst in this cold and blustering clime. 
Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar. 

We pass away the roughest time 
Has been of many years before ; 

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks 
The chillest blasts our peace invade, 

And by great rains our smallest brooks 
Are almost navigable made ; 



.y. 



Whilst all the ills are so improved 
Of this dead quarter of the year. 

That even you, so much beloved. 

We would not now wish with us here : 
31 




^V 







In this estate, I say, it is 
Some comfort to us to suppose 

That in a better clime than this 

You, our dear friend, have more repose ; 

And some dehght to me the while, 

Though Nature now does weep in vain, 

To think that I have seen her smile, 
And haply may I do again. 

If the all-ruling Power please 

We live to see another May, 
We'll recompense an age of these 

Foul days in one fine fishing-day. 

We then shall have a day or two, 
Perhaps a week, wherein to try 

What the best master's hand can do 
With the most deadly killing fly. 

A day with not too bright a beam ; 

A warm, but not a scorching sun ; 
A southern gale to curl the stream ; 

And, master, half our work is done. 

Then, whilst behind some bush we wait 

The scaly people to betray, 
We'll prove it just with treacherous bail 

To make the preying trout our prey ; 

And think ourselves in such an hour 
Happier than those, though not so high. 

Who, like leviathans, devour 

Of meaner men the smaller fry. 

This, my best friend, at my poor home 
Shall be our pastime and our theme ; 

But then — should you not deign to come 
You make all this a flattering dream. 



32 





5fw 





GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 

i627^i'^«» ^ 




Dryden's Zimri,— who 

" In the course of one revolving moon 
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon,"— 

was also a writer of amorous verse, as smooth and heartless, but 
not so gay nor fanciful, as that of many of his contemporaries. 
Too busy to do anything but trifle, too well-bred to write gravely, 
Buckingham produced songs that echoed through Whitehall, and 
were forgotten when the echo passed. 



RECONCILIATION. 

Come, let us now resolve at last 

To live and love in quiet ; 
We'll tie the knot so very fast 

That time shall ne'er untie it. 

The truest joys they seldom prove 
Who free from cjuarrels live ; 

'Tis the most tender part of love 
Each other to forgive. 

When least I seemed concerned I took 

No pleasure nor no rest ; 
And when I feigned an angry look, 

Alas : I loved you best. 



33 






JOHN DRYDEN. 

1631 — 1700. 

Dryden was the eldest son of a Northamptonshire gentleman ; 
he began by eulogizing Cromwell ; went on to praise Charles the 
Second ; wrote licentious plays for money, though himself a quiet, 
respectable man ; and ended by turning Roman Catholic. Such 
a character can scarcely be pleasant to contemplate, and we must 
deplore that the great poet lived in so unhappy and vicious an age. 
There is a long and elastic swing in his satirical verse that makes 
its lashes cut as deep almost as Juvenal's ; but Dryden wanted 
grace, taste, purity, and- above all — heart. 



SONG TO BRITANNIA, IN "KING ARTHUR." 

Fairest isle, all isles excelling, 
Seat of pleasures and of loves : 

Venus here will choose her dwelling, 
And forsake her Cyprian groves. 

Cupid from his favourite nation 

Care and envy will remove ; 
Jealousy, that poisons passion, 

And despair, that dies for love. 

Gentle murmurs, sweet complaining. 
Sighs, that blow the fire of love ; 

Soft repulses, kind disdaining, 
Shall be all the pains you prove. 

Every swain shall pay his duty. 
Grateful every nymph shall prove ; 

And as these excel in beauty, 

Those shall be renowned for love. 



34 






Happy and free, securely blest, 
No beauty could disturb my rest ; 
My amorous heart was in despair 
To find a new victorious fair. 

Till you descending on our plains 
With foreign force renew my chains ; 
Where now you rule without control, 
The mighty sovereign of my soul. 

Your smiles have more of conquering charms 
Than all your native country's arms: 
Their troops we can expel with ease, 
Who vanquish only when we please. 

But in your eyes, oh ! there 's the spell ; 
Who can see them, and not rebel? 
You make us captives by your stay. 
Yet kill us if you go away. 



35 



<^ 




^■/ 








SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 

1639 — 1 70 1. 

Sedley was ill his youth the gayest of the butterfly poets of 
King Charles's Court, and even in that dissokite age one of the 
most abandoned of the boon companions of the monarch. There 
is, however, a fine flow and fervour about his pretty song, " Love 
still has something of the Sea." 



r^. 



CX 





SONG. 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Or better than the rest ; 
For I would change each hour, like them 

Were not my heart at rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 

By every thought I have ; 
Thy face I only care to see, 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored, 

In thy dear self I find. 
For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 




Why then should I seek farther store, 
And still make love anew .'' 

When change itself can give no more, 
'Tis easy to be true. 
36 





%A^^^^^^. 





.^_. 



SONG. 

Love still has something of the sea 
From whence his mother rose ; 

No time his slaves from doubt can free, 
Nor give their thoughts repose. 

They are becalmed in clearest days, 
And in rough weather tossed ; 

They wither under cold delays. 
Or are in tempests lost. 

One while they seem to touch the port, 

Then straight into the main 
Some angry wind, in cruel sport. 

The vessel drives again. 

At first disdain and pride they fear. 
Which if they chance to 'scape, 

Rivals and falsehood soon appear 
In a more dreadful shape. 






SONG. 

Hears not my Phyllis, how the birds 
Their feather'd mates salute ? 

They tell their passion in their words 
Must I alone be mute? 

Phyllis, without frown or smile, 

Sat and knotted all the while. 

The god of Love in thy bright eyes 

Does like a tyrant reign ; 
But in thy heart a child he lies, 

Without his dart or flame. 
Phyllis, without frown or smile, 
Sat and knotted all the while. 

So many months in silence past, 

And yet in raging love, 
Might well deserve one word at last 

My passion should approve. 
Phyllis, without frown or smile. 
Sat and knotted all the while. 

Must then your faithful swain expire. 
And not one look obtain. 

Which he, to soothe his fond desire. 
Might pleasingly explain? 

Phyllis, without frown or smile. 

Sat and knotted all the while. 










A' -'m 



m ■ 

m 








p' 



Phyllis is my only joy, 

Faithless as the winds or seas ; 
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, 
Yet she never fails to please ; 
If with a frown 
I am cast down, 
Phyllis smiling, 
And beguiling. 
Makes me happier than before. 



:^^ 



Tho', alas ! too late I find 

Nothing can her fancy fix. 
Yet the moment she is kind 
I forgive her all her tricks ; 
Which, tho' I see, 
I can't get free ; 
She deceiving, 
I believing ; 
What need lovers wish for more / 



'^^ 



TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. 



Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 
As unconcerned as when 

Your infant beauty could beget 
No happiness or pain ! 

When I the dawn used to admire, 
And praised the coming day, 

I little thought the rising fire 
Would take my rest away. 
39 




Your charms in harmless childhood lay 

Like metals in a mine ; 
Age from no face takes more away 

Than youth concealed in thine. 
But as your charms insensibly 

To their perfection prest, 
.So love as unperceived did fly, 

And centered in my breast. 

My passion with your beauty grew, 

While Cupid at my heart 
Still as his mother favoured you 

Threw a new flaming dart : 
Each gloried in their wanton part ; 

To make a lover, he 
Employed the utmost of his art — 

To make a beauty, she. 

Though now I slowly bend to love. 

Uncertain of my fate, 
If your fair self my chains approve 

I shall my freedom hate. 
Lovers, like dying men, may well 

At first disordered be. 
Since none alive can truly tell 

What fortune they must see. 



From Sedley's play, "The Mulberry Garden." These verses have often been attri- 
buted to Duncan Forbes of CuUoden. 



40 



^O^' 








Prior (and who was a better judge of light verse ?) thought 
the gay Earl's song one of the prettiest ever made ; and it is 
certainly as airy and gallant as such a song could be. We seem 
to rock up and down as we read it. There is the sunny ease, 
the playful elegance of a lighthearted courtier about it. The 
excitement of the coming battle (one of the most tremendous 
fought in that reign) had no doubt risen like Champagne into 
the man's witty, careless brain. 



SONG 

WRITTEN AT SEA IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, THE NIGHT 
BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. 



To all you ladies now at land 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write ; 
The muses now, and Neptune too. 
We must implore to write to you. 

With a fa la, la, la, la 




For though the muses should prove kind 

And fill our empty brain ; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind 

To wave the azure main. 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we. 
Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
With a fa la, &c. 

Then if we write not by each post 

Think not we are unkind. 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind : 
41 




'^x 





Our tears we'll send a speedier way ; 
The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
With a fa la, &c. 

The King with wonder and surprise 
Will swear the seas grow bold, 

Because the tides will higher rise 
Than e'er they used of old : 

But let him know it is our tears 

Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 
With a fa la, &c. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story, 
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe. 

And quit their fort at Goree ; 
p^or what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts behind ? 
With a fa la, &c. 

Let wind and weather do its worst, 

Be you to us but kind ; 
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 

No sorrow we shall find : 
'Tis then no matter how things go, 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
With a fa la, &c. 

To pass our tedious hours away 

We throw a merry main ; 
Or else at serious ombre play ; 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
We were undone when we left you. 
With a fa la, &c. 

But now our fears tempestuous grow, 

And cast our hopes away ; 
Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 

Sit careless at a play : 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your f;in. 
With a fa la, &c. 
42 






When any mournful tune you hcar 

That dies in every note, 
As if it sighed with each man's care 

For being so remote, 
Think then how often love we've made 
To you when all those tunes were played. 
With a fa la, &c. 

In justice you can not refuse 

To think of our distress, 
When we for hopes of honour lose 

Our certain happiness ; 
All those designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love. 
With a fa la, &c. 



And now we've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears. 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears ; 
Let's hear of no inconstancy, 
We have too much of that at sea. 

With a fa la, la, la, la. 




^^^^ 




43 




s:4 




^^/Jf 




rS> 



DR. WALTER POPE. 

1640 — 1714. 

There is not much known of this pleasant old Epicurean 
Dean of Wadham, except that he quarrelled with irascible Anthony 
Wood, and kept up firm friendships with Bishop Wilkins, and 
Dr. Seth Ward, Bishop of Salisbury. Vincent Bourne turned the 
' Old Man's Wish,' into charming Latin, with an Horatian feeling 
worthy of all praise. 



'6 il 



THE OLD MAN'S WISH. 

If I live to be old, for I find I go clown, 

Let this be my fate, in a country town 

May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate. 

And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. 

CHORUS. 
May I govern my passion with an absolute sway, 
And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away 
Without gout or pang, by a gentle decay. 



May my little house stand on the side of a hill. 
With an easy descent to a mead and a mill, 
That when I've a mind I may hear my boy read, 
In the mill, if it rains ; if it's dry, in the mead. 
May I govern, &c. 

44 




/A, 



l''^ 




Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook, 
With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look, 
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile. 
And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile ; 
May I govern, &c. 

With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more 
Of the best wits that reigned in the ages before • 
With roast mutton, rather than venison or teal, 
And clean tho' coarse linen at every meal ; 
May I govern, &c. 

With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor 
And remnants of Latin to welcome the Vicar ; ' 

With Monte-Fiascone, or Burgundy wine, 
To drink the king's health as oft as I dine ; 
May I govern, &c. 

May my wine be vermilion, may my malt-drink be pale 
In neither extreme, or too mild or too stale • ' 

In heu of desserts, unwholesome and dear, 
Let Lodi or Parmesan bring up the rear. ' 
May I govern, &c. 

Nor Tory or Whig, observator or trimmer 
May I be, nor against the law's torrent a 'swimmer 
May I mmd what I speak, what I write, and hear read 
And with matters of State ne'er trouble my head.* 
May I govern, &c. 

Let the gods, who dispose of every king's crown, 
Whomsoever they please set up and pull down • 
1 11 pay the whole shilling imposed on my head. 
Though I go without claret that night to my bed 
May I govern, &c. 



'Leave princes' affairs undescanted on 

And tend to such doings as stands thee upon." 




^?^;i 







I'll bleed without grumbling, though fresh taxes appear 
As oft as new moons, or weeks in a year. 
For why should I let a seditious word fall, 
Since my lands in Utopia pay nothing at all ? 
May I govern, &c. 



.y, 



<5?/( 



Though I care not for riches, may I not be so poor 
That the rich without shame cannot enter my door ; 
May they court my converse, may they take much delight 
My old stories to hear in a winter's long night. 
May I govern, &c. 



My small stock of wit may I not misapply 
To flatter ill men, be they never so high ; 
Nor misspend the few moments I steal from the grave 
In fawning and cringing like a dog or a slave. 
May I govern, &c, 



May none whom I love to so great riches rise 
As to slight their acquaintance and their old friends despise ; 
So low or so high may none of them be 
As to move either pity or envy in me. 
May I govern, &c. 



A friendship I wish for — (but, alas ! 'tis in vain), 
So firm, that no change of times, envy, or gain. 
Or flattery, or woman, should have power to untie 
Jove's storehouse is empty, and can't it supply. 
May I govern, &;c. 



1 hope I shall have no occasion to send 
For priests or physicians till I'm so riear mine end 
That I have ate all my bread and drank my last glass 
Let them, come then and set their seals to my pass. 
May I govern, &€. 




With a courage undaunted may I face my last day, 
And when I am dead may the better sort say, 
In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow. 
He's gone, and not left behind him his fellow. 
May I govern, &c. 



Without any noise when I've passed o'er the stage, 
And decently acted what part Fortune gave, 
And put off my vest in a cheerful old age. 
May a few honest fellows see me laid in my grave. 
May I govern, &c. 



I care not whether under a turf or a stone, 
With any inscription upon it, or none : 
If a thousand years hence, Here lies W. P. 
Shall be read on my tomb, what is it to me ? 
May I govern, &c. 



Yet one wish I add, for the sake of those few 
Who in reading these lines any pleasure shall take ; 
May I leave a good fame and a sweet-smelling name. 
Amen. Here an end of my Wishes I make. 
May I govern, &c. 




47 








MATTHEW PRIOR. 

1664— 1721. 

Prior was brought up by his uncle in a tavern at Charing Cross. 
The Earl of Dorset one day discovering the quick-eyed lad reading 
Horace by stealth, took a liking to him, and sent him to Cambridge. 
Entering the Government service, he rose in time to be Under- 
Secretary of State and Commissioner of Trade. Nothing can be 
imagined more airy and playful than the best of Prior's poems. 
He ripened in French sunshine, and its glow still lingers over his 
verse ; as the elder Disraeli finely said of him, ' Prior drank Bur- 
gundy in its own vineyard.' 

ODE. 

The merchant, to secure his treasure, 

Conveys it in a borrowed name : 
Euphelia serves to grace my measure. 

But Chloe is my real flame. 

My softest verse, my darling lyre, 

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay — 
When Chloe noted her desire 

That I should sing, that I should play. 

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise. 

But with my numbers mix my sighs ; 

And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. 

Fair Chloe blushed : Eupheha frowned : 

I sung, and gazed ; I played, and trembled ; 

And Venus to the Loves around 

Remarked how ill we all dissembled. 






sr.NSKi liv rnK ska. 






AN ANSWER TO CHLOE JEALOUS. 

Dear Chloc, how blubbered is that pretty face ! * 
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled : 

Prithee, quit this caprice, and, as old Falstaff says, 
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. 

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy 
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? 

Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy : 
More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. 

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, 

Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong ; 

You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit : 
Odd's-life I must one swear to the truth of a song ? 

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows 
The difference there is betwixt nature and art : 

I court others in verse ; but I love thee in prose : 
And they have my whimsies, l)ut thou hast my heart. 

The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the sun. 
How after his journeys he sets up his rest : 

If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, 
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. 



So when I am wearied with wandering all day, 
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come ; 

No matter what beauties I saw in my way. 

They were but my visits, but thou art my home. 

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, 
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree ; 

For thou art a girl as much brighter than her. 
As he was a poet sublimer than me. 

'' " Blubbered face," used by Spenser, Fat^ric Quecnr, B. i. c. 6. 

49 






^iV^ 



TO CHLOE. 

Whilst I am scorched with liot desire- 
In vain cold friendship you return ; 

Your drops of pity on my fire, 
Alas I but make it fiercer iDurn. 

Ah ! would you have the flame supprcst 
That kills the heart it heats too fast, 

Take half my passion to your breast : 
The rest in mine shall ever last. 



CHLOE HUNTING. 

Behind her neck her comely tresses tied. 

Her ivory quiver graceful by her side, 

A-hunting Chloe went : she lost her way, 

And through the woods uncertain chanced to stray. 

Apollo passing by beheld the maid. 

And, " Sister dear, bright Cynthia, turn," he said : 

" The hunted hind lies close in yonder brake." 

Loud Cupid laughed to see the god's mistake ; 

And, laughing, cried, " Learn better, great divine, 

To know thy kindred and to honour mine. 

Rightly advised far hence thy sister seek. 

Or on Meander's bank or Latmus' peak. 

But in this nymph my friend, my sister know : 

She draws my arrows, and she bends my bow ; 

Fair Thames she haunts, and every neighbouring grove 

Sacred to soft recess and gentle love. 

Go, with thy Cynthia hurl the pointed spear 

At the rough boar, or chase the flying deer : 

I and my Chloe take a nobler aim ; 

At human hearts we fling, nor ever miss the game. 



5° 





Sec, whilst thou wcep'st, fair Chloc, sec 
The world in sympathy with thcc. 
The cheerful birds no longer sing, 
Each droops his head and hangs his wing. 
The clouds have bent their bosom lower, 
And shed their sorrows in a shower : 
The brooks beyond their limits flow. 
And louder murmurs speak their woe : 
The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares, 
They heave thy sighs and weep thy tears. 
Fantastic nymph ! that grief should move 
Thy heart obdurate against love. 
Strange tears ! whose power can soften all 
But that dear breast on which they fall. 



CUPID MISTAKEN. 

As after noon, one summer's day, 
Venus stood bathing in a river, 

Cupid a-shooting went that way, 

New strung his bow, new filled his quiver. 

With skill he chose his sharpest dart. 
With all his might his bow he drew ; 

Swift to his beauteous parent's heart 
The too well guided arrow flew. 



2'^ 



" I faint ! I die ! " the goddess cried : 
" O cruel ! couldst thou find none other 

To wreak thy spleen on ? parricide ! 

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother." 

Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak— 1» 
" Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye ; 

Alas ! how easy my mistake ; 

I took you for your likeness, Chloe." 
5' 





THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. 

IMITATION OF A GREEK IDVEMUM. 

Celia and I, the other day, 

Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea : 

The setting sun adorned the coast, 

His beams entire, his fierceness lost : 

And on the surface of the deep 

The winds lay only not asleep : 

The nymph did, like the scene, appear 

Serenely pleasant, calmly fair : 

Soft fell her words as flew the air. 

With secret joy I heard her say 

That she would never miss one day 

A walk so fine, a sight so gay. 

But, oh the change ! The winds grow higli, 

Impending tempests charge the sky, 

The lightning flies, the thunder roars, 

And big waves lash the frightened shores. 

Struck with the horror of the sight 

She turns her head and wings her flight ; 

And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again 

Approach the shore or view the main. 

"Once more at least look back," said I, 
" Thyself in that large glass descry : 
When thou art in good humour drest. 
When gentle reason rules thy breast, 
The sun upon the calmest sea 
Appears not half so bright as thee : 
'Tis then that with delight I rove 
Upon the boundless depth of love : 
I bless my chain, I hand my oar. 
Nor think on all I left on shore. 

" But when vain doubt and groundless fear 
Do that dear foolish bosom tear ; 
When the big lip and watery eye 
Tell me the rising storm is nigh ; 
52 




f 



r^ 



'Tis then thou art yon angry main 
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain ; 
And the poor sailor that must try 
Its fury labours less than I. 
Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make, 
While love and fate still drive me back : 
Forced to doat on thee thy own way, 
I chide thee first, and then obey : 
Wretched when from thee, vexed when nij 
I with thee, or without thee, die." 



ON BEAUTY: A RIDDLE. 



h, 




Resolve me, Chloe, what is this. 
Or forfeit me one precious kiss ? 
'Tis the first offspring of the Graces, 
Bears different forms in different places, 
Acknowledged fine where'er beheld. 
Yet fancied finer when concealed. 
'Twas Flora's wealth, and Circe's charm. 
Pandora's box of good and harm : 
'Twas Mars' wish, Endymion's dream, 
Apelles' draught, and Ovid's theme. 
This guided Theseus through the maze. 
And sent him home with life and praise : 
But this undid the Phrygian boy. 
And blew the flames that ruined Troy. 
This shewed great kindness to old Greece, 
And helped rich Jason to the fleece. 
This through the East just vengeance hurled, 
And lost poor Antony the world. 
Injured, though Lucrece found her doom. 
This banished tyranny from Rome ; 
For this Alcides learned to spin. 
His club laid down and lion's skin : 
For this Apollo deigned to keep 
With servile care a mortal's sheep. 
For this the father of the gods, 
Content to leave his high abodes, 
53 





In borrowed figures loosely ran, 
Europa's bull, and Leda's swan : 
For this he reassumes the nod 
While Semele commands the god ; 
Launches the bolt and shakes the poles, 
Though Momus laughs and Juno scolds. 

Here listening Chloe smiled and said, 
" Your riddle is not hard to read : 
I guess it." — Fair one, if you do. 
Need I, alas ! the theme pursue ? 
For this, thou seest, for this I leave 
Whate'er this world thinks wise or grave, 
Ambition, business, friendship, news. 
My useful books and serious Muse. 
For this I willingly decline 
The mirth of feasts and joys of wine ; 
And choose to sit and talk with thee, 
As thy great orders may decree. 



IF WINE AND MUSIC HAVE THE POWER. 

If wine and music have the power 

To ease the sickness of the soul, 
Let Phoebus every string explore. 

And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl. 
Let them their friendly aid employ 

To make my Chloe's absence light, 
And seek for pleasure, to destroy 

The sorrows of this live-long night. 



But she to-morrow will return : 

Venus, be thou to-morrow great ; 
Thy myrtles strow, thy odours burn. 

And meet thy favourite nymph in state. 
Kind goddess, to no other powers 

Let us to-morrow's blessings own ; 
Thy darling Loves shall guide the hours, 

And all the day be thine alone. 



;< 



54 




THE FEMALE PHAETON. 

Thus Kitty," beautiful and young, 

And wild as colt untamed, 
Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung, 

With little rage inflamed : 

Inflamed with rage at sad restraint 
Which wise Mamma ordained ; 

And sorely vexed to play the saint 
Whilst wit and beauty reigned. 

" Shall I thumb holy books, confined 

With Abigails, forsaken ? 
Kitty's for other things designed. 

Or I am much mistaken. 



" Must lady Jenny frisk about 
And visit with her cousins .'' 

At balls must s/ie make all the rout, 
And bring home hearts by dozens r 

" What has she better, /pray, than I, 
What hidden charms to boast. 

That all mankind for her should die, 
Whilst I am scarce a toast ? 

" Dearest Mamma ! for once let me 
Unchained my fortune try ; 

I'll have my Earl as well as she. 
Or know the reason why. 



" I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score, 

Make all her lovers fall : 
They'll grieve I was not loosed before. 

She, I was loosed at all." 

Afterwards Duchess of Queensbury, and a friend of that good-natured poet Gav 

55 





Fondness prevailed, Mamma gave way ; 

Kitty, at heart's desire, 
Obtained the chariot for a day, 

And set the world on fire. 






THE GARLAND, 

The pride of every grove I chose, 

The violet sweet and lily fair. 
The dappled pink and blushing rose, 

To deck my charming Chloe's hair. 

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place 
Upon her brow the various wreath ; 

The flowers less blooming than her face, 
The scent less fragrant than her breath. 

The flowers she wore along the day, 
And every nymph and shepherd said 

That in her hair they looked more gay 
Than glowing in their native bed. 

Undressed at evening, when she found 
Their odours lost, their colours past, 

She changed her look, and on the ground 
Her garland and her eyes she cast. 

That eye dropped sense distinct and clear 
As any Muse's tongue could speak. 

When from its lid a pearly tear 

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 

Dissembling what I knew too well, 
"My love, my life," said I, "explain 

This change of humour ; prithee, tell — 
That faUing tear — what does it mean?" 

She sighed, she smiled ; and to the flowers 
Pointing, the lovely moralist said, 

" See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, — 
See yonder, what a change is made. 
56 



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" Ah me ! the blooming pride of May 
And that of Beauty are but one ; 

At morn both flourish bright and gay, 
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. 



s^mLm^ 



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" At dawn poor Stella danced and sung ; 

The amorous youth around her bowed 
At night her fatal knell was rung ; 

I saw and kissed her in her shroud. 

" Such as she is who died to-day. 
Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow : 

Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display 
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow." 



57 



^^^. 



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JOHN GAY. 

1688 — )732. 

Gay was a fat, careless, loveable man, before whose drollery 
even Swift relented ; nor did Pope discharge one poisoned arrow 
at hin\. 

TO A LADY, ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA. 

What ecstasies her bosom fire ! 
How her eyes languish with desire ! 
How blest, how happy, should I be 
Were that fond glance bestowed on me ! 
New doubts and fears within me war : 
W^hat rival's near ? — a china jar ! 

China's the passion of her soul : 
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl. 
Can kindle wishes in her breast, 
Inflame with joy, or break her rest. 

Some gems collect, some medals prize. 
And view the rust with lovers' eyes ; 
Some court the stars at midnight hours ; 
Some doat on Nature's charms in flowers : 
But every beauty I can trace 
In Laura's mind, in Laura's face ; 
My stars are in this brightest sphere, 
My lilv and mj- rose is here. 
58 







Philosophers, more grave than wise, 
Hunt science down in butterflies : 
Or, fondly poring on a spider, 
Stretch human contemplation wider. 
Fossils give joy to Galen's soul ; 
He digs for knowledge like a mole ; 
In shells so learn'd, that all agree 
No fish that swims knows more than he ! 
In such pursuits if wisdom lies. 
Who, Laura, shall thy taste despise ? 

Where I some antique jar behold. 
Or white, or blue, or specked with gold, 
Vessels so pure and so refined 
Appear the types of womankind : 
Are they not valued for their beauty, 
Too fair, too fine for household duty ? 
With flowers, and gold, and azure dyed, 
Of every house the grace and pride ? 
How white, how polish'd is their skin,] 
And v^alued most when only seen ! 
She, who before was highest prized, 
Is for a crack or flaw despised. 
I grant they're frail ; yet they're so rare, 
The treasure cannot cost too dear ! 
But man is made of coarser stuff, 
And serves convenience well enough. 
He's a strong earthen vessel, made 
For drudging, labour, toil, and trade ; 
And, when wives lose their other self, 
With ease they bear the loss of pelf. 

Husbands, more covetous than sage, 
Condemn this china-buying rage ; 
They count that woman's prudence little, 
Who sets her heart on things so brittle. 
But are those wise men's inclinations 
Fix'd on more strong, more sure foundations .' 
If all that's frail we must despise, 
No human view or scheme is wise. 
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak ? 
They swell like bulobles, shine, and break. 
59 




a^ 





A courtier's promise is so slight, 
'Tis made at noon, and broke at night. 
The man who loves a country life 
Breaks all the comforts of his wife ; 
And if he quit his farm and plough, 
His wife in town may break her vow. 
Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm. 
For each new winter breaks a charm ; 
And woman's not like china sold. 
But cheaper grows in growing old ; 
Then quickly choose the prudent part. 
Or else you break a faithful heart. 






GEORGE GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNE. 

1667— 1734-5. 

A FRIEND and patron of Pope, commended by Waller, and a 
Treasurer in Queen's Anne's household. Lord Lansdowne wrote like 
a gentleman ; praising and petting the poets, he was praised by 
them. Although shut up in the Tower as an adherent of the 
Pretender, Lord Lansdowne escaped the block, and returned to the 
world to appear again in Parliament and to edit his poems. 

LOVE IH BY FANCY LED ABOUT. 



Love is by fancy led about 

From hope to fear, from joy to doulDt ; 

Whom we now an angel call, 
Divinely graced in every feature, 
Straight's a deformed, a perjured creature ; 

Love and hate are fancy all. 

'Tis but as fancy shall present 
Objects of grief, or of content, 

That the lover's blest, or dies ; 
Visions of mighty pain or pleasure, 
Imagined want, imagined treasure, 

All in powerful fancy lies. 



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HENRY CAREY. 



This is one of the prettiest and most natural of English love 
songs. Carey had been watching an apprentice and his betrothed 
in Vauxhall, enjoying their cakes and ale — he came home and 
wrote this song. After a wild career, this mad genius destroyed 
himself at his house in Cold Bath Fields. 

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 

Of all the girls that are so smart, 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

jVnd she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady in the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em: 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally! 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely ; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely, — 
But let him bang his bellyful, 

I'll bear it all for Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 
62 



XL 



Of all the days that's in the week 

I dearly love but one day — 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday : 
For then I'm drest all in my best 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she li\es in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

And often am I blamed 
Because I leave him in the lurch 

As soon as text is named ; 
I leave the church in sermon-time 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again, 

O then I shall have money ; 
I'll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I'll give it to my honey : 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

I'd give it all to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master and the neighbours all 

Make game of me and Sally, 
And, but for her, I'd better be 

A slave, and row a galley ; 
But when my seven long years are out 

O then I'll marry Sally, — 
O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, 

But not in our alley ! 






As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care 
Drags from the town to wholesome country air, 
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, 
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh ; 
From the dear man unwilling she must sever, 
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever : 
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, 
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew ; 
Not that their pleasures caused her discontent. 
She sighed not that they stayed, but that she went. 

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks, 
Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks : 
She vfent from opera, park, assembly, play, 
To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day ; 
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea. 
To muse, and spill her solitary tea. 
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon. 
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon : 
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire. 
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire ; 
Up to her godly garret after seven, 
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven. 
64 






Some squire, perhaps, you lake delight to rack. 
Whose game is whist, whose treat a toast in sack 1 
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, 
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries, — No words ! 
Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable ; 
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table ; 
Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse, 
And loves you best of all things — but his horse.* 

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, 
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade ; 
In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, 
See coronations rise on every green ; 
Before you pass the imaginary sights 
Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and gartered knights. 
While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes ; 
Then give one flirt and all the vision flies. 
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls. 
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls I 

So when your slave, at some dear idle time 
(Not plagued with head-aches, or the want of rhyme) 
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew. 
And while he seems to study, thinks of you ; 
Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, 
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, 
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite. 
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight ; 
Vexed to be still in town, I knit my brow. 
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now. 



' " He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse." 

Tennvson : Locksley Hal 




65 





ODE ON SOLITUDE. 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 

A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread 

Whose flocks supply him with attire. 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter fire. 

Blest, who can unconcernedly find 

Hours, days, and years, shde soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind. 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 

Together mixed ; sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 



k\. 



^IMITATION OF SWIFT. 

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON. 

Parson, these things in thy possessing 
Are better than the bishop's blessing. 
A wife that makes conserves ; a steed 
That carries double when there's need ; 
October store, and best Virginia, 
Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea ; 
66 



t^J. 



Gazettes sent gratis down, and franked, 

For which thy patron's weekly thanked ; 

A large Concordance, bound long since; 

Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince ; 

A Chronicle of ancient standing ; 

A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in : 

The Polyglott — three parts,— my text, 

Howbeit, — likewise — now to my next : 

Lo here the Septuagint, — and Paul, 

To sum the whole, — the close of all. 

He that has these may pass his life, 

Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife ; 

On Sundays preach, and eat his fill ; 

And fast on Fridays — if he will ; 

Toast Church and Queen, explain the news. 

Talk with church-wardens about pews, 

Pray heartily for some new gift. 

And shake his head at Doctor Swift. 



^ 





67 



'<^ 






AMBROSE PHILIPS 

1675—1749. 

This butt of the wits could, as we see below, be occasionally 
^^ simple, pretty, and unaffected. 

To MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, in her MOTHER'S ARMS, 
1 May, 1724. 

Timely blossom, infant fair. 
Fondling of a happy pair, 
Every morn and every night 
Their solicitous delight. 
Sleeping, waking, still at ease, 
Pleasing, without skill to please ; 
Little gossip, lithe and hale, 
Tattling many a broken tale, 
Singing many a tuneless song, 
Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
Simple maiden, void of art, 
Babbling out the very heart. 
Yet abandoned to thy will, 
Yet imagining no ill, 
Yet too innocent to blush ; 
Like the linnet in the bush. 
To the mother-linnet's note 
Moduling her slender throat ; 
Chirping forth thy petty joys, 
Wanton in the change of toys, 
Like the linnet green, in May 
Flitting to each bloomy spray ; 
Wearied then and glad of rest, 
Like the linnet in the nest : — 
This thy present happy lot. 
This, in time, will be forgot : 
Other pleasures, other cares. 
Ever-busy Time prepares ; 
And thou shalt in thy daughter see, 
This picture, once, resembled thee. 
68 





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COLLEY CIBBER, 

1671—1757- 

The old beau and good actor was an admirable prose writer, 
and an opponent who did not quail even before the lance of Pope. 
The Medusa's head of satire had no terrors for this healthy man 
of the world. There is both nature and pathos in the poem we 
have selected. 

THE BLIND BOY. 

say ! what is that thing called Light, 
. Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 

What are the blessings of the sight.? 
O tell your poor blind boy ! 

You talk of wondrous things you see, 
You say the sun shines bright ; 

1 feel him warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night ? 

My day or night myself I make 

Whene'er I sleep or play ; 
And could I ever keep awake 

With me 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 

You mourn my hapless woe ; 
But sure with patience I can bear 

A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy : 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king. 

Although a poor blind boy. 



oD.^ 




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69 




'Va 




WILLIAM OLDYS. 

1696 — 1761. 

Oldys had the care of Lord Oxford's library, and was employed 
to select and edit the '■'■ Harlciaii MisccUiDiyr His verse is so 
gaily thoughtful that we wish he had written more. 

SONG, 

MADE EXTEMPORE BY A GENTLEMAN, OCCASIONED BY A FLY 
DRINKING OUT OF HIS CUP OF ALE. 



Busy, curious, thristy fly, 
Drink with me, and drink as I ; 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Couldst thou sip and sip it up. 
Make the most of life you may 
Life is short, and wears away. 



Both alike are mine and thine. 
Hastening quick to their decline: 
Thine's a summer, mine no more. 
Though repeated to threescore ; 
Threescore summers, when they're gone 
Will appear as short as one. 




JOHN BYROM. 

1 69 1— 1763. 

The following poem was one of Byrom's contributions to the 
" Spectator'''' (No. 603) ; his Phoebe was the daughter of Dr. Bentley. 
The shepherds one sees on old china must have sung just such 
songs as Byrom's. 



\^^ 



A PASTORAL. 

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, 
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went ; 
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast : 
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest ! 
But now she is gone, and has left me behind, 
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find ! 
When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
I thought 'twas the spring ; but, alas ! it was she. 

With euch a companion to tend a few sheep, 

To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, 

I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, 

My heart was as light as a feather all day ; 

But now I so cross and so peevish am grown. 

So strangely uneasy, as never was known. 

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, 

And my heart — I am sure it weighs more than a pounc 

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along. 
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, 
71 



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Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 

'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: 

Rut now she is absent, I walk by its side. 

And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide ; 

Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain ? 

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. 

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, 

And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they ; 

How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, 

When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime 

But now, in their frolics, when by me they pass, 

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; 

Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad. 

To see you so merry while I am so sad. 

My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; 
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, 
"Come hither, poor fellow!" and patted his head. 
But now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour look, 
Cry " Sirrah," and give him a blow with my crook : 
And I'll give him another ; for why should not Tray 
Be as dull as his master when Phoebe's away? 

When walking with Phoebe what sights have I seen ! 
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! 
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade. 
The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! 
But now she has left me, though all are still there, 
They none of them now so delightful appear: 
'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes. 
Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through. 
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too ; 
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat. 
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. 
But now she is absent, though still they sing on. 
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: 
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found. 
Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 
72 






^>4; 




II. IN AM) I'lKKliK, 







Rose, what is become of thy dehcate hue? 

And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? 

Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile? 

That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? 

Ah rivals, I see what it was that you drest, 

And made yourself fine for-a place in her breast • 

You put on your colours to pleasure her eye 

To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. 

How slowly Time creeps till my Phct^be return ! 

\\hae amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn • 

Mett^inks, ,f I knew whereabouts he would tread ' 

I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt do^vn the lead 

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, 

And rest so much longer for't when she is h^-e. 

Ah, Cohn! old Time is full of delay 

Nor will budge one foot faster for ail thou canst say. 

Will no pitying power that hears me complain, 
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain ? 

But what swam is so silly to live without love! 
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return. 
For ne er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn 

Tk?'?'f °- I ^hall die wL despair- 
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with you; fair. 



Ho' 



'~^- 



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73 






WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 

1714— 1763. 

A STOUT Shropshire gentleman, ahnost ruining himself by in- 
dulging in extravagant landscape gardening, and, at the same time, 
writing soft verses on imaginary shepherdesses and rural pleasures, 
is not unworthy of contemplation by any cynic who wants fresh 
excuses for his hatred of his race. Yet it must be allowed that of its 
kind the verse is nearly perfect. 

HOPE. 

My banks they are furnished with bees, 

Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 
My grottos are shaded with trees, 

And my hills are white over with sheep ; 
1 seldom have met with a loss. 

Such health do my fountains bestow ; 
My fountains, all bordered with moss. 

Where the harebells and violets grow. 

Not a pine in my grove is there seen, 

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound ; 
Not a beech's more beautiful green, 

But a sweetbriar entwines it around. 
Not my fields in the prime of the year 

More charms than my cattle unfold ; 
Not a brook that is limpid and clear, 

But it glitters with fishes of gold. 

One would think she might like to retire 

To the bower I have laboured to rear ; 
Not a shrub that I heard her admire, 

But 1 hasted and planted it there. 
O how sudden the jessamine strove 

With the lilac to render it gay ! 
Already it calls for my love 

To prune the wild branches away. 
74 



9^ 





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From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, 

What stra,ins of wild melody flow, 
How the nightingales warble their loves 

From thickets of roses that blow ! 
And when her bright form shall appear, 

Each bird shall harmoniously join 
For a concert so soft and so clear. 

As she may not be fond to resign. 

I have found out a gift for my fair, 

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ; 
But let me that plunder forbear. 

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. 
For he ne'er could be true, she averred, 

Who could rob a poor bird of his young ; 
And I loved her the more when I heard 

Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 

I have heard her with sweetness unfold 

How that pity was due to a dove ; 
That it ever attended the bold. 

And she called it the sister of Love. 
But her words such a pleasure convey, 

So much I her accents adore. 
Let her speak, and whatever she say, 

Methinks I should love her the more. 

Can a bosom so gentle remain 

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs ? 
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain 

These plains and this valley despise ? 
Dear regions of silence and shade ! 

Soft scenes of contentment and ease ! 
Where I could have pleasingly strayed, 

If aught in her absence could please. 

But where does my Phyllida stray? 

And where are her grots and her bowers ? 
Are the groves and the valleys as gay. 

And the shepherds as gentle as ours.? 
The groves may perhaps be as fair, 

And the face of the valleys as tine ; 
The swains may in manners compare. 

But their love is not equal to mine. 
75 



— O- 





ROBERT DODSLEY. 

1703—1764- 

This amiable man, originally a stocking weaver, became next a 
footman, and lastly a poet and a publisher. We are indebted to 
Dodsley's Collection of old plays for the revival of the taste for 
Elizabethan literature, as we are to Dr. Percy for those immortal 
old ballads that let in a current of fresh air and sunshine upon 
our literature from w^hich the Lake poets derived so much of their 
vitality. 

THE PARTING KISS. 

One kind wish before we part, 

Drop a tear, and bid adieu : 
Though we sever, my fond heart. 

Till we meet, shall pant for you. 






Yet, yet weep not so, my love, 
Let me kiss that falling tear ; 

Though my body must remove. 
All my soul will still be here. 

All my soul, and all my heart. 

And every wish shall pant for you 

One kind kiss, then, ere we part," 
Drop a tear, and bid adieu. 



' Ae ond kiss and then we sever." 

Bin'iis. 





JOHN GILBERT COOPER. 

1723— 1769. 

The supposed writer of this poem was a Nottinghamshire 
magistrate, and a promoter of the " Society for the Encourage- 
ment of Arts and Manufactures." Dr. Percy pubhshed the 
verses beheving them to be ancient British, save the mark ! The 
worthy, but in this case, misguided, Doctor justly praises the 
poem as " a beautiful address to conjugal love — a subject too 
much neglected by the libertine muses." 





si 



:-^i.^VX. 



AWAY ! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. 

Away ! let nought to love displeasing, 

My Winifreda, move your care ; 
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing. 

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors, 
With pompous titles grace our blood ? 

We'll shine in more substantial honours, 
And, to be noble, we'll be good. 

Our name while virtue thus we tender, 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke ; 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though, from Fortune's lavish bounty, 

No mighty treasures we possess .^ 
We'll find within our pittance plenty, 

And be content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason, 

And that's the only life to live. 
77 



=oA, 



h 








Through youth and age, in love excelling, 
We'll hand in hand together tread ; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling. 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should 1 love the pretty creatures. 
While round my knees they fondly clung ! 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 



And when with envy Time transported, 
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 

You'll in your girls again be courted, 
And I'll go wooing in my boys. 




THOMAS GRAY. 

1716—1771. 

Gray, like Milton, was, the son of a scrivener. A stiff and 
rather disagreeable College Don, he sometimes condescended to be 
playful, but not always with the happiest results. 

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, 

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 

Twas on a lofty vase's side. 
Where China's gayest art had dyed 

The azure flowers that blow, 
Demurest of the tabby kind, 
The pensive Selima, reclined. 

Gazed on the lake below. 

Her conscious tail her joy declared : 
The fair round face, the snowy beard, 

The velvet of her paws, 
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies. 
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes. 

She saw, and purred applause. 

Still had she gazed ; but 'midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide, 

The Genii of the stream : 
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue, 
Though richest purple to the view, 

Betrayed a golden gleam. 
79 




^.^.MJ^ 







The hapless nymph with wonder saw : 
A whisker first, and then a claw, 

With many an ardent wish, 
She stretched in vain, to reach the prize. 
What female heart can gold despise ? 

What cat's averse to fish? 

Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
Again she stretched, again she bent, 

Nor knew the gulf between. 
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) 
The slippery verge her feet beguiled. 

She tumbled headlong in. 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mewed to every watery god 

Some speedy aid to send ; 
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd ; 
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard ; 

A favourite has no friend. 

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived, 
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved. 

And be with caution bold ; 
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
And heedless hearts is lawful prize. 

Nor all that glitters gold. 




80 








TOBIxVS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 

(1721— 1771.) 

Smollett's love of his native country was a redeeming trait 
in the character of a soured and fretful man. There is tremendous 
vigour in his more serious verse. His Ode to Independence, 
" Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye ! " begins with the rush 
of Pindar. 

ODE TO LEVEN WATER. 

On Lcven's banks wliilc free to rove, 

And tune the rural pipe to love, 

I envied not the happiest swain 

That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave 

My youthful limbs 1 wont to lave ; 

No torrents stain thy limpid source, 

No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 

That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 

With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; 

While, lightly poised^ the scaly brood 

In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 

The springing trout in speckled pride; 

The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 

The ruthless pike, intent on war ; 

The silver eel and mottled par. 

Devolving from thy parent lake, 

A charming maze thy waters make, 

By bowers of birch and groves of pine. 

And edges flowered with eglantine. 

Still on thy banks so gaily green 

May numerous herds and flocks be seen : 

And lasses chanting o'er the pail. 

And shepherds piping in the dale ; 

And ancient faith that knows no guile. 

And industry embrowned with toil ; 

And hearts resolved, and hands prepared. 

The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 

Si M 





^. 



'^3^^ii<^ny 





.^ 



PAUL WHITEHEAD. 

1710— 1774. 

This not very remarkable poet was first a mercer's apprentice, 
and then a barrister. He wrote a satire on " Manners," another 
on " PiigiHsm ;" and was a lounger, and a not very reputable trifler 
at the Prince of Wales's house in Leicester Fields. 

HUNTING SONG. 

The sun from the east tips the mountains with gold ; 
The meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold ! 
Hear, the lark's early matin proclaims the new day, 
And the horn's cheerful summons rebukes our delay. 

Chorus. With the sports of the field there's no pleasure can vie, 
While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry. 

Let the drudge of the town make riches his sport ; 
The slave of the state hunt the smiles of a court : 
No care and ambition our pastime annoy. 
But innocence still gives a zest to our joy. 

With the sports, &c. 

Mankind are all hunters in various degree ; 
The priest hunts a living — the lawyer a fee, 
The doctor a patient — the courtier a place. 
Though often, like us, he's flung out in the chase. 
With the sports, &c. 

The cit hunts a plum — while the soldier hunts fame. 
The poet a dinner — the patriot a name ; 
And the practised coquette, though she seems to refuse. 
In spite of her airs, still her lover pursues. 

With the sports, &c. 

Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and wealth ; 
All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health, 
With hound and with horn through the woodlands to roam. 
And, when tired abroad, find contentment at home. 
With the sports, &c. 




rllK Wllll'l'l K-IN. 




Goldsmith is always delightful : and his satire is harmless as 
summer lightning. He was not the man to hurt even a wasp, much 
less a fly. His playfulness is graceful. We regret he did not 
sketch the intrusiveness and servility of Boswell. 



STANZAS ON WOMAN. 

From Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. xxiv. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray, 
What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
^ What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 
\ To give repentance to her lover. 

And wring his bosom, is — to die. 

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LOKU CLAKE. 

Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter : 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study — 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy. 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regrettin 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view 
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show- 
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in. 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
But hold— let me pause— don't I hear you pronounce 
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ; 

83 






^.^a:!^ 




i^ 




Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may trj" 
By a bounce now and then to get courage to fly. 
But, my Lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, 
It's a truth — and your Lordship may ask Mr. Burn. 

To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch — 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest. 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's — 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again 
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when 
There's Howard, and Coley, and Hogarth, and Hiff — ' 
1 think they love venison — I know they love beef; 
There's my countryman Higgins — oh ! let him alone 
For making a blunder or picking a bone. 
But, hang it ! — to poets, who seldom can eat, 
Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, 
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. 
While thus I debated, in reverie centred. 
An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered ; 
An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me. 
" What have we got here ? Why, this is good eating ! 
Your own I suppose — or is it in waiting ? " 
"Why, whose should it be?" cried I, with a flounce; 
" I get these things often " — but that was a bounce ; 
" Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 

" If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay, 
" I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me : 
No words — I insist on't -precisely at three. 
We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there; 
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! 
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. 
What say you — a pasty ! it shall and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile End ; 
No stirring, I beg— my dear friend — my dear friend!" 

84 



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'^^ 



Thus snatching bis hat, he brushed off bke the wind, 
And the porter and eatables followed behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And " nobody with me at sea but myself," 
Though 1 could not help thinking my gentlemen hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison-pasty, 
Were things that I never disliked in my life — 
Though clogged with a coxcomb and Kitty his wife ; 
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When come to the place where we all were to dine — 
A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine — 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke could not come ; 
" For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail. 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale : 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, and the other a Jew, 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; 
The one wiiies the Snarler, the other the Scourge; 
Some think he writes Cinna — -he owns to Panurge." 
While thus he described them by trade and by name, 
They entered, and dinner was scr\-cd as they came. 

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen ; 
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen : 
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle a place where the pasty was not. 
Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound. 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round. 
But what vexed me most was that damned Scottish rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue. 
And, " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst. 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
" The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
" I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners so pretty and small — 
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." 

85 



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:^. 



■,^: 



" Oh, oh ' '' quoth my friend, " he'll come in a trice, 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 

There's a pasty" -"A pasty!" repeated the Jew; 

" I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 

" What the de'il, mon, a pasty ! " re-echoed the Scot ; 

" Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 

" We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 

" We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. 

While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, 

With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid ; 

A visage so sad, and so pale with afifright, , 

Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. 

But we quickly found out — for who could mistake her ? — 

That she came with some terrible news from the baker ; 

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 

Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop— 

And now that I think on't the story may stop. 

To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced 

To send such good verses to one of your taste. 

You've got an odd something,— a kind of discerning— 

A relish, a taste, sickened over by learning— 

At least it's your temper, as very well known, 

That you think very slightly of all that's your own ; 

So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 

You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



^^ 



IV 









SIR GILBERT ELLIOT. 

— 1777- 

Sir Gilbert, father of the first Earl of Minto, was Treasurer of 
the Navy, Keeper of the Signet in Scotland, and an eloquent 
speaker in Parliament. He introduced the use of the German flute 
into Scotland. The pastoral is rather a hopeless style of com- 
position, and generally seems artificial and faded ; but Sir Gilbert's 
song is a pleasant specimen of the style.* 



>/ 



AMYNTA. 



My sheep 1 neglected, I broke my sheep-hook. 
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; 
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; 
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. 

Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ? 
Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ? 
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore, 
And 111 wander from love and Amvnta no more. 



Through regions remote in vain do 1 rove. 
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! 
O fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 
A love so well founded, a passion so true! 

Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; 
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : 
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain 
The moments neglected return not acrain. 




Scott's " Lay of the Last Mirutrel,'" Ch. L 




1735 — 1779- 



This amiable and warm-hearted man was a Prebend of Wells. 
In his " Country Justice," he anticipated the sober truthfulness 
and pathos of Crabbc. They both painted in the Dutch manner, 
but without its coarseness. 



TO A REDBREAST. 

Little bird, with bosom red, 
Welcome to my humble shed ! 
Courtly domes of high degree 
Have no room for thee and me. 
Pride and pleasure's fickle throng 
Nothing mind an idle song. 

Daily near my table steal. 
While I pick my scanty meal. 
Doubt not, little though there be, 
But I'll cast a crumb to thee ; 
Well rewarded, if I spy 
Pleasure in thy glancing eye. 
See thee, when thou'st ate thy fill, 
Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill. ^ 

Come, my feathered friend, again, 
Well thou know'st the broken pane. 
Ask of me thy daily store ; 
Go not near Avaro's door : 
Once within his iron hall, 
Woful end shall thee befall. 
Savage ! — he would soon divest 
Of its rosy plumes thy breast ; 
Then, with solitary joy, 
Eat thee, bones and all, my boy ! 



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SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

1709— 1784. 



As it amused Adam to see the elephant gambol before him and 
twining his lithe proboscis, it may amuse our readers to see the 
great lexicographer penning amatory verses, and rolling his Cyclo- 
pean head to the dainty but attenuated music of a spinnet. It is 
pleasant to watch the great moralist bound like Hercules to a 
spinning wheel, and writing playful verses for arch and clever 
Mrs. Piozzi. 

TO MRS. THRALE, 

ON HER COMPLETING HER THIRTY-FIFTH YEAR. 
A\ IMPROMI'TT'. 

Oft in danger, yet alive, 
We are come to thirty-five ; 
Long may better years arrive, 
Better years than thirty-five ! 
Could philosophers contrive 
Life to stop at thirty-five, 
Time his hours should never drive 
O'er the bounds of thirty-five. 
High to soar and deep to dive 
Nature gives at thirty-five. 
Ladies, stock and tend your hive, 
Trifle not at thirty-five ; 
89 







For howe'cr we boast and strive, 
Life declines from thirty-five. 
He that ever hopes to thrive 
Must begin by thirty-five ; 
And all who wisely wish to wive 
Must look on Thi'ale at thirty-five. 



TO MISS HICKMAN PLAYING ON THE SPINNET 

Bright Stella, formed for universal reign, 
Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain ; 
When in your eyes resistless lightnings play. 
Awed into love our conquered hearts obey, 
And yield reluctant to despotic sway : 
But when your music soothes the raging pain 
We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign. 
We bless the tyrant and we hug the chain. 
When old Timotheus struck the vocal string. 
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king : 
Unbounded projects labouring in his mind, 
He pants for room in one poor world confined. 
Thus waked to rage by music's dreadful power. 
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devoul'. 
'Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre, 
Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire ; 
No more delighted with destructive war. 
Ambitious only now to please the fair ; 
Resigned his thirst of empire to her charms, 
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms. 




90 








THE SPINNET. 




^% 



'^U 



JOHN LOGAN. 

174.8— 1788. 

There is an unhappy confusion about Logan's poems. Logan, 
a Scolch Clergyman, falling into dissipated habits, came to 
London and turned Author on a small scale. Many of his poems 
are supposed to have been stolen from the papers of his friend, 
Michael Bruce, a poetical young schoolmaster, who died of con- 
sumption in very early life. Burke admired this Cuckoo poem, 
and the elder D'Isracli calls it magical for " picture, melody, and 
sentiment." 

TO THE CUCKOO. 

Hail ! beauteous stranger of the grove, 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green 

Thy certain voice we hear ; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 

Or mark the rolling year ? 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers. 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolljoy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay. 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear. 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale. 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another Spring to hail. 
91 







This grave poet was the son of a Professor of Poetry at Oxford. 
Wordsworth imitated his sonnets, and their quiet meditative tone 
suited the genius of the Lake poet. 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALES 
"MONASTICON." 

Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, 

By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled 

Of painful pedantry, the poring child, 

Who turns of these proud domes the historic page 

Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. 

Think'st thou the warbling muses never smiled 

On his lone hours ? Ingenious views engage 

His thoughts on themes unclassic falsely styled, 

Intent. While cloistered piety displays 

Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores 

New manners, and the pomp of elder days, 

Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. 

Not rough nor barren are the winding ways 

Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers. 

ON REVISITING THE RIVER LODDON. 

Oh ! what a weary race my feet have run 
Since first I trod thy banks, with alders crowned. 
And thought my way was all through fairy ground, 
Beneath the azure sky and golden sun — 
When first my muse to lisp her notes begun ! 
While pensive memory traces back the round 
Which fills the varied interval between ; 
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. 
Sweet native stream ! those skies and suns so pure 
No more return to cheer my evening road ! 
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure 
Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed 
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature, 
Nor with the Muse's laurel xmbestowed, 
93 








THOMAS 



This poet, who was born blind, was the son of a Cumberland 
bricklayer who had settled in Dumfriesshire ; he became a clergy- 
man, but the parishioners objecting with a rather brutish intole- 
rance to a blind minister, he settled in Edinburgh, and lived by 
taking lodgers. He seems to have been a happy and amiable man, 
and cheerful, in spite of his deprivation. He was an early and 
generous admirer of the genius of Burns. 



ODE TO AURORA ON MELISSA'S BIRTH-DAY 

Of Time and Nature eldest born. 

Emerge, thou rosy-fingered Morn ; 

Emerge, in purest dress arrayed. 

And chase from heaven Night's envious shade, 

That I once more may pleased survey, 

And hail Melissa"s natal-day. 



-^j 



12. 



If 



Of Time and Nature eldest born, 
Emerge, thou rosy-fingered Morn ; 
In order at the eastern gate 
The hours to draw thy chariot wait ; 
Whilst Zephyr, on his balmy wings, 
Mild Nature's fragrant tribute brings, 
With odours sweet to strew thy way. 
And grace the bland revolving day. 

But, as thou lead'st the radiant sphere 
That gilds its birth and marks the year, 
And as his stronger glories rise. 
Diffused around the expanded skies, 
Till, clothed with beams serenely bright, 
All heaven's vast concave flames with light 
94 






So when through hfc's protracted day 

MeHssa still pursues her way, 

Her virtues with thy splendour vie, 

Increasing to the mental eye ; 

Though less conspicuous, not less dear, 

Long may they Bion's prospect cheer ; 

So shall his heart no more repine, 

Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine. 



95 



.>z 






SAMUEL BISHOP. 

1731—1795- 

Little is known of this writer, except that he was a clergyman, 
and Master of Merchant Taylors' School. He could not have been 
a severe disciplinarian to have written such amiable verses. The 
poets in general have not been eloquent on the unromantic theme of 
love after marriage. 

TO MRS. BISHOP, 

ON THE ANXIVERSARY OF IIER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH WAS 
ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING. 

' Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed ' — 
So, fourteen years ago, I said. 
Behold another ring ! — ' For what ! ' 
To wed thee o'er again ! Why not ? - 

With that first ring I married youth, 
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; 
Taste long admired, sense long revered, 
And all my Molly then appeared. 

If she, by merit since disclosed. 
Prove twice the woman 1 supposed, 
I plead that double merit now. 
To justify a double vow. 
Here, then, to-day — with faith as sure, 
With ardour as intense, as pure. 
As when, amidst the rites divine, 
I took thy troth and plighted mine — 
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring 
A token and a pledge I bring : 
With this I wed, till death us part, 
Thy riper virtues to my heart ; 
Those virtues which, before untried, 
The wife has added to the bride ; 
Those virtues, whose progressive claim, 
Endearing wedlock's very name, 
My soul enjoys, my song approves, 
For conscience ' sake as well as love's ! 

And why ? — They shew me every hour 
Honour's high thought, Affection's power. 
Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, 
And teach me all things — but repentance. 
96' 










ROBERT BURNS. 

1759— 1796. 

How Genius can transform men, and confer titles beyond any 
registered in human courts ! The Ayrshire ploughman earned a 
fame (in spite of all his disfiguring vices) eternal and unshakable 
as Ben Lomond. Let his faults be forgotten and his virtues live ! 
Great power from God had fallen on this peasant, and his poems, 
as long as Scotland remains Scotland, will live in the national 
heart and there be cherished. 

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 

Of a' the airts* the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the West, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean, 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

O blaw ye westlin' winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees ; 
Wi' balmy gale frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

* Points of the compass. 

97 O 






What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae passed atween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wac to part 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The Powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean ! 



2-' 



d 



A ROSEBUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk," 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread. 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 

A little linnet fondly prest, 

The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young jeanie fair! 
On trembling string or vocal air 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay. 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watched thy early morning. 

* An untilled ridge in a corn-field. 




Who can read the poet's delightful Letters to Lady Hesketh with- 
out loving the writer? So gentle and good — so tender and so 
witty, he pours forth his heart in all simplicity and love, without 
restraint, affectation, or even one selfish thought. 

THE POPLAR FIELD. 

The poplars are felled : farewell to the shade, 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, 
And the scene where his melody charmed me before 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away. 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 
99 





t .-. 



















The change both my heart and my fancy emplo) s ; 
I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys ; 
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 



THE ROSE. 

The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower. 

WTiich Mar}- to Anna conveyed. 
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, 

.\nd weighed down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, 

And it seemed, to a fanciful \-iew, 
To weep for the buds it had left vnith regret 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas I 
I snapped it, it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part 

Some act by the delicate mind, 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resigned. 

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. 

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile. 

And the tear that is wiped i^-ith a little address 
May be followed perhaps by a smile. 





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'MW 



DR. ERASMUS DARWIN. 



1731- 



This almost forgotten poet was a fashionable physician in Lich- 
field, who attempted, like Cowley, in smooth and glittering verse to 
lecture on Science in rhyme. Cowper admired him, and Campbell 
began by imitating him. Street reciters are, even now, sometimes 
to be heard reciting the Doctor's " Death of Eliza," which is 
very rhetorically effective, and not without a certain pompous 
sentiment. 



SONG TO MAY. 

Born in yon blaze of orient sky, 

Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold ; 

Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye, 
And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. 

For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow. 
For thee descends the sunny shower ; 

The rills in softer murmurs flow. 

And brighter blossoms gem the bower. 

Light graces, decked in flowery wreaths 
And tiptoe joys, their hands combine ; 

And Love his sweet contagion breathes. 
And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. 

Warm with new life, the glittering throng 
On quivering fin and rustling wing, 

Delighted join their votive song. 

And hail thee Goddess of the Spring ! 

From the ' Loves oj the Plants. 






^k^V^fe^V^ 





HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

1785 — 1806. 

Tennyson dcscriljcs, in his " Will Waterproof," the violet 
blooming 

" Among the chops and steaks." 

In Kirke White's case, a butcher's son became a poet. His poetry 
is rather colourless, but it is pui'e and simple, and was, it must be 
remembered, the work of a very young man. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMRO.SE, 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire I 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 

Was nursed in whirling storms 
' And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. 

Unnoticed and alone. 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head. 

Obscure and unobserved ; 



While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 







rm- II RSI l'KIMKii-.b; 




MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

1749 — 1806. 

This amiable and unfortunate lady, the victim of an ill-assorted 
marriage, wrote some admirable Sonnets. She was a friend of 
Hayley ; and Sir Walter .Scott mentions her sweet, mournful poems 
with a measured praise. 

HOJ'E: A RUN DEAL'. 

Just like Hope is yonder bow- 
That from the centre bends so low, 
Where bright prismatic colours show 
How gems of heavenly radiance glow. 
Just like Hope I 

Yet if, to the illusion new, 
The pilgrim should the arch pursue. 
Farther and farther from his view 
It flies, then melts in chilling dew. 

Just like Hope I 




Ye fade, ethereal hues, for ever I 
While, cold Reason, thy endea\()ur 
Soothes not that sad heart which never 
Glows with Hope I 





DR. THOMAS PERCY. 

1721 — 1811. 

The Bishop of Dromore was one of Dr. Johnson's best friends. 
We ought to be grateful to him for his pubHcation of those fine old 
ballads which lit up again the Gothic spirit, and tended to foster 
the genius of Scott. A love of nature and simplicity rose like the 
Nile with them to fertilize our then somewhat arid literature. 



/ 



O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? 



O Nancy, wilt thou go with me, 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town : 
Can silent glens have charms for thee, 

The lowly cot and russet gown } 
No longer dressed in silken sheen, 

No longer decked with jewels rare. 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 



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O Nancy ! when thou'rt far away, 

Wilt_ thou not cast a wish behind ? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
O ! can that soft and gentle mien 

Extremes of hardship learn to bear. 
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 



O Nancy ! canst thou love so true, 

Through perils keen with me to go, 
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, 

To share with him the pang of woe ? 
Say, should disease or pain befall, 

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care ; 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair .'' 
104 



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^^\ 

4 



And when at last thy love shall die, 

Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? 
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear ? 
Nor //u'/i regret those scenes so gay 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?* 



^ 



' Burns says in reference to the above, " It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charm- 
ing song, and by means of transposing a few Enghsh words into Scots, to offer to pass it 
for a Scots song." — Bl'KNS, Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads. 



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R. B. SHERIDAN* 

1751— 1816. 

Sheridan was more a wit than a poet, but we give his songs 
rather as specimens of his manner than in admiration of their 
excellence. An elaborate manufacturer of wit, and taking as much 
trouble to facet a joke as a jeweller docs to cut a diamond, he had 
not the impulses from whicli true poetry springs. 

ON P^EMALE INFLUENCE. 

In female hearts did sense and merit rule. 

The lover's mind would ask no other school ; 

Shamed into sense, the scholars of your eyes. 

Our beaux from gallantry would soon be wise ; 

Would gladly light, their homage to improve, 

The lamp of knowledge at the torch of love. 

TO . 

Dear object of my late and early prayer, 
Source of my joy and solace of my care, 
Whose gentle friendship such a charm can give 
As makes me wish, and tells me how to live ; 
To thee the Muse with grateful hand would bring 
These first fair flowers of the doubtful Spring. 
Oh, may they, fearless of tlie varying sky, 
Bloom on thy breast and smile beneath thine eye, 
In fairer lights their vivid blue display, 
And sweeter breathe their little lives away. 
106 










%. 



TO . 

The stricken deer that in his velvet side 

Feels at each step the trembing arrow plaw 
In shades of thickest covert loves to hide, 

And from the cruel hunter speeds away. 
But I, more wounded than the stricken deer, 

Scarce wish from my destroyer's aim to fly — 
I weep, but 'tis, alas ! too soft a tear, 

And e'en my groans are mingled with a sigh. 

ON A CHILD. 

In some rude spot where vulgar herbage grows. 

If chance a violjt rear its purple head. 

The careful gardener moves it ere it blows 

To thrive and flourisli in a nobler bed. 

Such was thy fate, dear child ! 

Thy opening such I 
Tre-eminence in early bloom was shown ; 

For earth too good, perhaps. 

And loved too much — 
Heaven saw and early marked thee for its own. 

^ FROM THE "DUENNA." 

I ne'er could any lustre see 

In eyes that would not look on me; 

I ne'er saw nectar on a lip 

But where mine own did hope to sip. 

Has the maid who touched my heart 

Cheeks of rose untouched by art ? 

I will own the colour true 

When yielding blushes aid their hue. 

Is her hand so soft and pure.'' 
I must press it, to be sure : 
Nor can I be certain then 
Till it, grateful, press again. 
Must I with attentive eye 
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
1 will do so when 1 see 
That heaving bosom sigh for mc. 
107 




9 





9 




?^" 



Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you ; 
For though your tongue no promise claimed, 

Your charms would make me true. 
To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer wrong ; 
But friends in alL the aged you'll meet, 

And lovers in the young. 

But when they learn that you have blest 

Another with your heart. 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest, 

And act a brother's part : 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit. 

Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
For friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And brothers in the young. 




1 08 







JOHN KEATS. 

'795 — '821. 

Keats was the son of a livery stable keeper, who apprenticed 
him to a chemist, till by his own genius the poet cut the thongs 
that held him to the counter. Beginning with an ambitious poem 
full of imperfections, gross affectations, and sterile conceits, he 
rose in power till he produced that fine torso, the " Hyperion." 
His smaller poems are full of beautiful observations of nature, 
and show fresh and exhaustless fancy. 



ROBIN HOOD. 

TO A FRIEND. 

No ! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have Winter's shears, 
Frozen North and chilling East 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forests whispering fleeces, 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 

No, the bugle sounds no more, 
And the twanging bow no more ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh. 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight amazed to hear 
Jesting deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon. 
Or the seven stars to light you, 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 



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l)Ut y )u never may behold 
LitUe John or Robin bold ; 
Never one of all the clan 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile '^ 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale, 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
(ione, the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the "grene shawe ; " 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his tufted grave, 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days, 
She would weep and he would craze : 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange ! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money. 

So it is ; yet let us sing 
Honour to the old bow-string ! 
Honour to the bugle-horn ! 
Honour to the woods unshorn I 
Honour to the Lincoln green I 
Honour to the archer keen ! 
Honour to tight Little John, 
And the horse he rode upon ! 
Honour to bold Robin Hood 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 
Honour to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan 1 
Though their days have hurried by. 
Let us two a burden try 




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Ever let the Fancy roam I 
Pleasure never is at home : 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 
Then let winged Fancy wander 
Through the thought still spread beyond her ; 
Open wide the mind's cage door, 
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 
And the enjoying of the Spring 
Fades as does its blossoming : 
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too 
Blushing through the mist and dew- 
Cloys with tasting : what do then ? 
Sit thee by the ingle, when 
The sear faggot blazes bright. 
Spirit of a winter's night ; 
When the soundless earth is muffled, 
And the caked snow is shuffled 
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 
When the Night doth meet the Noon 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banish Even from her sky. 
— Sit thee there, and send abroad 
With a mind self-overawed 
Fancy, high-commissioned: — send her! 
She has vassals to attend her ; 
She will bring, in spite of frost, 
Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 
She will bring thee, all together, 
All delights of summer weather ; 
All the buds and bells of May 
From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 
All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 
With a still, mysterious stealth ; 
She will mix these pleasures up ^ 

Like three fit wines in a cup, ' 

And thou shalt quaff it ; — thou shalt hear 
Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
1 1 1 






Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 

And in the same moment — hark ! 

'Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 

And every leaf, and every flower 
Pearled with the self-same shower. 
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Everything is spoilt by use : 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
Where's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place? 
Where's the voice, however soft, 
One would hear so very oft ? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let then winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
., Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 
Ere the God of Torment taught her 

I 12 







How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 

Shpt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet, 

While she held the goblet sweet, 

And JOve grew languid.— Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 

Quickly break her prison-string, 

And such joys as these she'll bring : 

— Let the winged Fancy roam ! 

Pleasure never is at home. 



IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy Tree, 

Thy branches ne'er remember 

Their green felicity : 

The north cannot undo them 

With a sleety whistle through them, 

Nor frozen thawings glue them 

From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy Brook, 
Thy bul^blings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting 
They stay their crystal fretting, 
Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. 

Ah, would 'twere so witJi many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy .'' 
To know the change and feel it. 
When there is none to heal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it — 
Was never said in rhyme. 
113 





PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

1792 — 1822. 

This great genius, so early doomed, so cruelly exiled for errors 
that time and experience would have removed, is the greatest of 
our Anglo-Italian poets whose natures have grown sweeter and 
fairer under a richer sun than that of England. Shelley's pure 
mind delighted to shape creatures from the elements, and to infuse 
the fire from Heaven into those spirits of his own fashioning. 
Never since the times of ^schylus have such choruses been 
written as those of his Prometheus Unbound ; and no one, with 
the exception of a young poet (Mr. Swinburne, in our own day), has 
more completely caught the Greek feeling. 



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LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 



'^^, 



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I arise from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night. 

When the winds are breathing low, 

And the stars are shining bright : 

I arise from dreams of thee. 

And a spirit in my feet 

Has led me — who knows how ? 

To thy chamber window, sweet ! 



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The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 
The champak odours fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
114 



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The nightingale's complaint, 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must on thine, 
Beloved as thou art ! 



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lift me from the grasa ! 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast. 
Oh ! press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 



LOVE'S PHILO.SOPHY. 



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The fountains mingle with the ri\er, 

And the rivers with the ocean. 
The winds of heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine ? 



^eT 



See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother ; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea, 
What are all these hissings worth, 

If thou kiss not mc ? 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. 






p.: 



^^ 



Orphan hours, the year is dead. 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry hours, smile instead, 
For the year is but asleep. 
"5 






See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 
Mocking your untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay. 
So White Winter, that rough nurse. 

Rocks the death-cold year to-day ; 
Solemn hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 

So the breath of these rude days 

Rocks the year :— be calm and mild, 

Trembling hours, she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 

January grey is here, 

Like a sexton by her grave ; 

February bears the bier, 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 

And April weeps,— but, O ye hours. 

Follow with May's fairest flowers ! 





LORD BYRON. 



1788- 



This great genius and most unhappy man began life by writing 
the verses to be expected of a young " man of quahty,'' till 
suddenly he found the talisman, and rose among the eagles of 
the higher order. Abandoned in morals, a voluntaiy exile, the 
victim of his own vices and his own gigantic vanity, wallowing 
in the lowest vices of Venice, Byron, in the last years of his life, 
laid aside his cynical and ribald poem to give his heart and soul 
to Greece, and to die in her cause. He did not merely pose 
himself for a patriot: he was one truly; and he left the world 
glorified by that single self-sacrifice. 

SHE WALK.S IN BEAUTY.* 



She walks in beauty, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 
And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meets in her aspect and her eyes, 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the moi-e, one ray the less 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that check, and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow 

But tell of days in goodness spent, — 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

'^ Written on returning from a ball where Lady Wilmot Horton had appeared in 
mwurning, with numeroiis spangles on her dress. 





^ 



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MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 



Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
ZcoTj fMOV, eras ayaTTOi. 

By those tresses unconlincd 
Wooed by each /Egean wind ; 
By those hds whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roc, 
Zarj }xov, aov aya-nS). 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zo)?; ^lov, (Tas dyanS). 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istamboul, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zarj fiov, eras' «ya7rw. 





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'',^^ 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic Hke thee ; 
And hke music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The wa\es lie still and gleaming, 
And the lulled winds seem dreaming 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep, 

Whose breast is gently heaving 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows before thee 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



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MRS. BARBAULD. 

1743— 1825. 

This excellent and amiable woman was the daughter of 
Dr. Aikin. She married a French Protestant Dissenting Minister, 
who kept a school at Palgrave, in Suffolk. Charles James Fox 
was a great admirer of her songrs, 



LIFE. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life ! we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
— Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good Night,- — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 



LA 






'^ 



LORD THURLOW. 

1781— 1829. 

Who could expect an owl to sing like a thrush?— and yet here we 
have a judge, who looked, as it was said, wiser than any one ever 
was, writing very graceful and natural verse even in an artificial 
and unnatural age. 

SONG TO MAY. 

May ! queen of blossoms 

And fulfilling flowers, 
With what pretty music 

Shall we charm the hours ? 
Wilt thou have pipe and reed 
Blown in the open mead, 
Or to the lute give heed 

In the green bowers? 

Thou hast no need of us 

Or pipe or wire, 
That hast the golden bee 

Ripened with fire ; 
And many thousand more 
Songsters that thee adore, - 
Filling earth's grassy floor 

With new desire. 

121 R 








Thou hast thy mighty herds, 

Tame, and free livers ; 
Doubt not, thy music too 

In the deep rivers ; 
And the whole plumy flight, 
Warbling the day and night — 
Up at the gates of light, 
Sec, the lark quivers ! 

When witli the jacinth 

Coy fountains are tressed ; 

And for the mournful bird 
Green woods are dressed. 

That did for Tereus pine ; 

Then shall our songs be thine 

To whom our hearts incline: 
May, be thou blessed ! 









CAPTAIN MORRIS. 

[{Da/r iiiiknown) 

This Welsh wit was one of the gayest Iwn viiiauts of his 
time. There are traditions still existing of his carouses in Covent 
Garden taverns. His songs were for the most part objectionable, 
but those that were written by him in his capacity as a gentleman 
equal Tom Moore's verses for rythm, fire, and spontaneity. There 
is a tradition, that when the original of Thackeray's Costigan died, 
and was buried under the window at Oflley's, Captain Morris read 
a disgraceful mock funeral service from the window above, and then 
poured a crown bowl of punch upon the grave of the poor clever 
vagabond who had so often been his boon companion. 

^ A REASON FAIR TO FILL MY GLASS. 

I've oft been asked by prosing souls 

And men of sober tongue. 
What joys there are in draining bowls 

And tippling all night long ? 
But though ihese cautious knaves I scorn. 

For once I'll not disdain 
To tell them why I drink till morn 

And fill my glass again. 

'Tis by the glow my bumper gives 

Life's picture's mellow iiiade ; 
The fading light then brightly lives, 

And softly sinks the shade : 
.Some happier tint still rises there 

With every drop I drain. 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

My muse, too, when her wings arc di"y. 

No frolic flight will take. 
But round the bowl s-hc'll dip and tl> 

Like swallows round a lake ; 
123 



vi«mi 





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M 



Then if the nymphs will have their share 

Before they'll bless their swain, 
Why that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

In life Fve rung all changes through, 

Run every pleasure down, 
'Mid each extreme of folly, too, 

And lived with half the town ; 
For me there's nothing new or rare 

Till wine deceives my brain, 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

There's many a lad 1 knew is dead, 

And many a lass grown old. 
And as the lesson strikes my head 

My weary heart grows cold ; 
But wine awhile drives off despair, 

Nay, bids a hope remain. 
Why that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

I find too when I stint my glass 

And sit with sober air, 
I'm posed by some dull reasoning ass 

Who treads the path of care ; 
Or, harder still, am doomed to bear 

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain, 
And that I'm sure's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Though hipped and vexed at England's fate 

In these convulsive days, 
I can't endure the ruined state 

My sober eye surveys ; 
But through the bottle's dazzling glare 

The gloom is seen less plain. 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 
124 







THE TOWN AND THE COUNTRY. 

In London I never know what to be at, 
Enraptured with this, and enchanted wth that ; 
I am wild with the sweets of Variety's plan, 
And life seems a blessing too happy for man. 

But the Country, Lord help me ! sets all matters right, 
So calm and composing from morning till night ; 
Oh ! it settles the spirits, though nothing is seen, 
But an ass on a common, or goose on a green ! 

In Town, if it rain, why it bars not our hope. 
The eye has its range, and the fancy its scope ; 
Still the same, though it pour all night and all day. 
It spoils not our prospects, it stops not our way. 

In the Country, how blest when it rains in the fields 
To feast on the transports which shuttlecock yields ! 
Or go crawling from window to window to see 
A hog on a dunghill, or crow on a tree ! 

In London how easy we visit and meet. 

Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat 

Our morning's a round of good humour, delight, 

And we rattle in comfort to pleasure at night. 

In the Country how charming your visits to make. 
Through ten miles of mud, for formality's sake ; 
With the coachman quite drunk, and the moon in a fog. 
And no thoughts in your head but a ditch or a bog. 

In London, if folks ill together are put, 
A beau may be dropped, or a quiz may be cut ; 
We change without end, and if happy or ill, 
Our wants are at hand, and our wishes at will, 
125 





^^ 



In the Country you're nailed like a pale in your park, 

To some stick of a neighbour, as old as the ark ; 

And if you are sick, or in fits tumble down, 

You meet Death ere the doctor can reach you from Town. 

'Tis true, if in fishing you take much delight, 

In a boat you may shiver from morning till night ; 

But though blessed with the patience which Job had of old, 

The devil of a thing can you catch — but a cold ! 

Then how often you've screwed to your chairs fist to fist, 
All stupidly yawning, o'er sixpenny whist ; 
And although you may lose, 'tis no less true than strange, 
You have nothing to pay ! — the good folks have no change. 

I've oft heard that love in a cottage is sweet, 
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet ; 
I know not of that, for alas ! I'm a swain. 
Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. 

Your jays and your magpies may chatter in trees, 
And whisper soft nonsense in groves, if they please ; 
But a house is much more to my mind than a tree. 
And for gr?^*es ! oh, a sweet grove of chimnies for me ! 

Then in Town let me live, and in Town let me die. 
For I own I can't relish the Country, not I. 
If I must have a villa in summer to dwell, 
Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall I 



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126 





Scott had too great a grasp of invention, and was too intent on 
large canvasses, too fond of making money and buying land, to 
write many verses suitable to our purpose. 

SONG IN OUENTIN DURWARD. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea. 
The orange flower perfumes the bower. 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who thrilled all day. 

Sits hushed his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade 
Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 

Ta beauty shy, by lattice high, 
Sings high-born Cavalier. 

The star of Love, all stars above, 
Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; 

And high and low the influence know- 
But where is County Guy ? 

SERENADE FROM THE " PIRATE." 
Farewell ! Farewell ! the voice you hear 

Has left its last soft tone with you,— 
Its next must join the seaward cheer, 

And shout among the shouting crew. 
The accents which I scarce could form 

Beneath your frown's controlling check, 
Must give the word, above the storm, 

To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. 
The timid eye I dared not raise,— 

The hand that shook when pressed to thine 
Must point the guns upon the chase,— 

Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 
127 




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To all 1 love, or hope, or fear, — 

Honour, or own, a long adieu ! 
To all that life has soft and dear, 

Farewell ! save memory of you ! 

SONG IN " WOODSTOCK." 

An hour with thee!— When earliest day 
Dapples with gold the eastern grey, 
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear 
The toil and turmoil, cark and care, 
New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 
And sad remembrance of the old ? — 

One hour with thee ! 

One hour with thee !— When burning June 
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon ; 
What shall repay the faithful swain 
His labour on the sultry plain ; 
And, more than cave or sheltering bough, 
Cool feverish blood and throbbing brow ?— 
One hour with thee ! 

One hour with thee !— When sun is set, 
Oh, what can teach me to forget 
The thankless labours of the day; 
The hopes, the wishes flung away ; 
The increasing wants and lessening gains, 
The master's pride who scorns my p^ins? — 
One hour with thee ! 

TO A LADY, 

WITH FLOWERS FROM THE ROMAN WALL. 

Take these flowers which, purple waving, 

On the ruined rampart grew, 
Where, the sons of freedom braving, 

Rome's imperial standards flew. 

Warriors from the breach of danger 
Pluck no longer laurels there ; 

They but yield the passing stranger 
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. 
128 



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THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. 

1770—1834. 

Mr. Spencer wrote some of the finest Vers de Societe in our 
language ; nor can even France produce any more elegant, more 
graceful, or more perfectly musical and finished. The shrewd 
authors of " The Rejected Addresses " parodied this writer's 
exaggerated compliments and extravagant adulation, but they 
could not detract from his taste and sensibility. 

WIFE,. CHILDREN, AND FRIEND.S. 

When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented 
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends), 

At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 

And slipped in three blessings — wife, children, and friends. 

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated. 
For justice divine could not compass its ends ; 

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated. 
For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, and friends. 

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, 
The fund ill secured oft in bankruptcy ends ; 

But the heart issues bills which are never protested. 

When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, and friends. 

Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers, 
The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends. 

Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 

How blest was his home with — wife, children, and friends. 



The soldier whose deeds live immortal in story. 
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, 

With transport would barter whole ages of glory 

For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. 
' 129 S 




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Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, 
Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends, 

The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 
The bower where he sat with — wife, children, and friends 

The dayspring of youth still unclouded by sorrow 

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 

No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, and friends, 

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish 
The laurel which o'er the dead favourite bends ; 

O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish. 
Bedewed with the tears of— wife, children, and friends. 

Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver. 

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour 

The glass which I fill to — wife, children, and friends. 



TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime ; 

Unheeded flew the hours ; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of the glass. 
When all its sands are diamond-sparks 

That dazzle as they pass .'' 

Oh ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings. 

When birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage for his wings .'' 



130 





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"& 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

1772—1834. 

Coleridge was like Michael Angelo in this, that his greatest 
works were but torsos. His life passed in glorious dreams, in 
planning the title-pages of future books, and in trying to build up 
a system of philosophy on the mud shoals of German theory. 
With such powers, how can we ever enough lament that Coleridge 
wrote so little ! 

LOVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve : 

She leaned against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 
131 






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Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

T played a soft and doleful air, 
r sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone . 
With which I sang another's love 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 
132 






There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees 
And how she tended him in vain ; 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 



/ 



And that she nursed him in a cave, 
And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 

— His dying words— but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng. 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long ! 




She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin shame 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 
^33 





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Her bosom heaved — she stept aside, 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms. 
She pressed me with her meek embrace; 
And, bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art 
That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride ! 

INSCRIPTION 

FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. 

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, — 
Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed 
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy 
The small round basin, which this jutting stone 
Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Spring, 
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath. 
Send up cold waters to the traveller 
With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease 
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, 
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page, 
As merry and no taller, dances still. 
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. 
Here twilight is, and coolness : here is moss, 
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 
Thou inay'st toil far and find no second tree. 
Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy heart 
Be innocent, here too slialt thou refresh 
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound. 
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees ! 
134 



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I775-IS34. 

With something of Jacques's spirit and much of Touchstone's, 
this almost the greatest of our Enghsh humourists wrote few 
verses, but what there are are dehghtful in their tender pathos and 
m their quaintne^ss. Lamb's toilsome and self-denying hfe was 
^Z '^"%"^^" ^l' '™^'Ss. Let swollen wealth shudder as it 
eads his Biography to see what great happiness and what intel^ 
lectual pleasure can hide itself even with ill-paid Government 
clerks and in humble lodgings at Hoxton, 

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
I have had playmates, I have had companions 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
I have been laughing, I have been carousin- 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies. 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
I loved a love once, fairest among women • 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not sec her- 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man • 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
Ghost-hke I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; 
i-arth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwellino- ? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces. " " 
How some they have died, and some they have left mc 
And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
^35 



'<J 





^o- 



HESTER. 

When maidens such as Hester die 
Their place ye may not well supply. 
Though ye among a thousand try 
With vain endeavour. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her together. 



A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate 
That flushed her spirit. 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was trained in Nature's school 
Nature had blest her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore. 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning — 



When from thy cheerful eyes aray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day 
,A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet fore-warning ? 
136 






JAMES HOGG. 

1772— 1835. 

This kind, thoughtless man began liie as a cowherd till 
the inspiration came upon him, and he rose into the cloudland 
of song. His "Kilmeny" is one of the most beautiful dreams of 
Fairyland ever penned by poet, and some of his songs are truly 
beautiful. 



'\r 




THE SKYLARK. 

Bird of the wilderness. 

Blithesome and cumberless. 
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea I 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place, 
O to abide in the desert with thee ! 

Wild is thy lay and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud. 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where on thy dewy wing, 

Where art thou journeying ? 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 

O'er moor and mountain green, 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim. 

Over the rainbow's rim. 
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away I 

Then, when the gloaming comes. 

Low in the heather blooms 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place, 
O to abide in the desert with thee I 
137 





WHEN THK KYE COMES HAME. 

Come all ye jolly shepherds 

That whistle through the glen, 
rU tell ye of a secret 

That courtiers dinna ken ; 
What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name? 
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame. 

( lioriis. 

W'hcn the kye comes hame 

When the kye comes hame, 

'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, 
When the kye comes hame. 

'Tis not beneath the coronet, 

Nor canopy of state, 
'Tis not on couch of velvet, 

Nor arbour of the great— 
'Tis beneath the spreading birk 

In the glen without the name, 
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie. 

When the kye comes homo. 

There the blackbird bigs his nest 

For the mate he lo'es to see, 
And on the topmost bough, 

O, a happy bird is he I 
Then he pours his melting ditty. 

And love is a' the theme ; 
And he'll woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame. 

When the blewart bears a pearl. 

And the daisy turns a pea, 
And the bonny luckan gowan 

Has fauldit up her e'e, 
138 





"WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME." 







Then the laverock frae the blue Hft 

Draps down, and thinks nae shame 

To woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame. 

See yonder pawky shepherd 

That lingers on the hill, 
His yowes are in the fauld, 

And his lambs are lying still ; 
Yet he downa gang to bed, 

For his heart is in a flame 
To meet his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame. 

When the little wee bit heart 

Rises high in the breast, 
And the little wee bit starn 

Rises red in the east, 
O there's a joy sae dear 

That the heart can hardly frame, 
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame. 

Then since all nature joins 

In this love without alloy, 
O, wha wad prove a traitor 

To nature's dearest joy ? 
O wha wad choose a crown 

Wi' its perils and its fame, 
And miss his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame. 

When the kye comes hame. 

When the kye comes hame, 
'Twccn the gloainin' and the mirk. 

When the kve comes hame. 



d. 





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FELICIA D. HEMANS. 

1793— '^35- 

This amiable poetess wrote much agreeable verse, always 
pervaded by tenderness of feeling, and a pure religious sentiment 
however wanting in condensation and vigour. 



TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 



^ 



How is it that before mine eyes, 

While gazing on thy mien, 
All my past years of life arise, 

As in a mirror seen ? 
What spell within thee hath been shrined, 
To image back my own deep mind? 



Even as a song of other times 

Can trouble memory's springs ; 

Even as a sound of vesper-chimes 
Can wake departed things ; 

Even as a scent of vernal flowers 

Hath records fraught with vanished hours 
140 



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Such power is thine! — they come, the dead, 
From the grave's bondage free. 

And smiHng back the changed are led 
To look in love on thee ; 

And voices that are music flown 

Speak to me in the heart's full tone : 

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress — 
The thoughts of happier years, 

And a vain gush of tenderness 
O'erflows in child-like tears ; 

A passion which I may not stay, 

A sudden fount that must have way. 

But thou, the while — oh ! almost strange. 

Mine imaged self ! it seems 
That on f/tjy brow of peace no change 

Reflects my own swift dreams ; 
Almost I marvel not to trace 
Those lights and shadows in t/ijy face. 

To see //wf calm, while powers thus deep, — 

Affection — memory — grief — 
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep 

O'er a frail aspen-leaf! 
O that the quiet of thine eye 
Might sink there when the storm goes by ! 

Yet look thou still serenely on. 
And if sweet friends there be 

That when my song and soul are gone 
Shall seek my form in thee, — 

Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 

To flee away and be at rest ! 




.Q) 



GEORGE COLMAN, Junior. 
1762 — 1836. 

COLMAN was eminent as a writer of comedies, a bon vivant, 
and a wit. Sheridan was his friend, and George IV. his boon 
companion. One good action of that king (some say the only 
one) was to rescue Colman from difficulties, and appoint him 
dramatic censor. The man without principles henceforward 
became impatient of patriotism, and the ribald talker erased the 
slightest adjuration with a Pharisaical shudder. 



LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. 

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, 
Has seen ' Lodgings to let' stare him full in the face ; 
Some are good and let dearly ; while some, 'tis well known, 
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. 

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, 
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only ; 
But Will was so fat he appeared like a tun, 
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one. 

He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated. 
But all the night long he felt fever'd and heated ; 
And, though heavy to weigh as a score of fat sheep. 
He was not by any means heavy to sleep. 

Next night 'twas the same ; and the next, and the next ; 
He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous and vexed ; 
Week passed after week, till by weekly succession 
His weakly condition was past all expression. 

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him, 
For his skin "like a lady's loose gown" hung about him. 
He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny, 
" I have lost many pounds — make me well— there's a guinea." 

142 





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The doctor looked wise: "A slow fever," he said ; 
Prescribed sudorifics on going to bed. 
"Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "are humbugs, 
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs !" 

Will kicked out the doctor ; but when ill indeed 
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed ; 
So, calling his host, he said, " Sir, do you know 
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago? 

" Look'ee, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, 
" That with honest intentions you first took me in ; 
But from the first night— and to say it I'm bold— 
I've been so hanged hot that I'm sure I caught cold." 

()uoth the landlord, " Till now I ne'er had a dispute ; 
I've let lodgings these ten years; I'm a baker to boot; 
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven ; 
And your bed is immediately over my oven." 

' The oven ! " sa)s Will. Says the host, " Why this passion .? 
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. 
Why so crusty, good sir?" "Zounds!" cried Will, in a taking, 
" Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking ? " 

Will paid for his rooms ; cried the host with a sneer, 
" Well, I see you've been going away half a year." 
"Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel," Will said, 
" But I'd rather not pn-isli while j'ou nta/cc your bread" 



.>/ 





J 





LETITIA LANDON. 

1802— 1838. 

L. E. L. whose unhappy death secured for her a fame that 
otherwise her poetry might not have obtained, was a woman 
of quick sensibihties, impulsive and imprudent. At a time when 
Byron's influence still prevailed she wrote poems which arc 
more remarkable for sentiment than imagination. 

SONG. 

Oh never another dream can be 

Like that early dream of ours, 
When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, 

Like a child, among the flowers. 

But Hope has wakened since, and wept. 

Like a rainbow, itself away ; 
And the flowers have faded and fallen around — 

We have none for a wreath to-day. 

Now wisdom wakes in the place of hope, 
And our hearts are like winter hours : 

Ah !• after-life has been little worth 
That early dream of ours. 




144 






JAMES SP/EITH. 

1775—1839- 

The two Smiths were sons of a solicitor to the Board of Ord- 
nance. James Smith was the perfection of a diner-out ; as a club 
wit he had no rival ; and of all the parodies of the world there are 
few to equal or even to compare with the " Rejected Addresses." 
James Smith wrote the greater part of the Entertainments for 
Charles Matthews the elder. 

BRIGHTON. 

(Solvititr acris hycms grata vice veris.) 

Now fruitful Autumn lifts his sun-burnt head, 
The slighted Pai'k few cambric muslins whiten, 

The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed, 

And Horace quits awhile the town for Brighton, 

The cit foregoes his box at Turnham Green, 
To pick up health and shells with Amphitrite, 

Pleasure's fair daughters trip along the Steyne, 
Led by the dame the Greeks call Aphrodite. 

Phcebus, the tanner, plies his fiery trade ; 

The graceful nymphs ascend Judea's ponies, 
Scale the West Cliff, or visit the Parade, 

While poor papa in town a patient drone is. 

Loose trousers snatch the wreath from pantaloons ; 

Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in ; 
But now (so will the Prince's Light Dragoons) 

White jean have triumphed o'er their Indian brethren. 

Here with choice food earth smiles and ocean yawns. 
Intent alike to please the London glutton. 

This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns, 
That, for our dinner Southdown lamb and mutton. 
145 L- 





^ 



YeL here, as elsewhere, Death impartial reigns, 

Visits alike the cot and the Pavilion, 
And for a bribe, with equal scorn disdains 

My half a crown, and Baring's half a million. 

Alas ! how short tlie span of human pride ! 

Time flies, and hope's romantic schemes ai'e undone ; ^^^7^1 

Cosweller's coach, that carries four inside. 

Waits to take back th' unwilling bard to London. 

Ye circulating novelists, adieu ! 

Long envious cords my black portmanteau tighten ; 
Billiards, begone ! avaunt, illegal loo ! 

Farewell, old Ocean's bauble, glittering Brighton ! 

Long shalt thou laugh thine enemies to scorn. 

Proud as Phoenicia, queen of watering places ! 
Boys yet unbreeched and virgins yet unborn 

On thy bleak downs shall tan their blooming faces. Q-^\ 



kniv- 



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CHIGWELL : 

OR, " PR.^TERITOS ANNOS." 

School, that in Burford's honoured time 
Reared me to youth's elastic prime 

From childhood's airy slumbers — 
School, at whose antique shrine I bow. 
Sexagenarian pilgrim now. 

Accept a poet's numbers. 

Those yew-trees never seem to grow : 
The village stands vi statu quo, 

Without a single new house ; 
But, heavens ! how shrunk ! how very small 
'Tis a mere step from Urmstone's wall, 

" Up town," to Morgan's brewhouse. 

There in yon rough-cast mansion dwelt 
Sage Denham, Galen's son, who dealt 

In squills and cream of tartar ; 
Fronting the room where now I dine 
Beneath thy undulating sign, 

Peak-bearded Charles the Martyr ! 
146 



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Pent in by beams of mouldering wood 
The parish stocks stand where they stood 

Did ever drunkard rue 'em ? 
I dive not in parochial law. 
Yet this I know — I never saw 

Two legs protruded through 'em. 

Here, to the right, rose hissing proofs 
Of skill to solder horses' hoofs, 

Formed in the forge of Radley ; 
And there, the almshouses beyond, 
Half-way before you gain the Pond, 

Lived wry-mouthed Martin Hadley. 



Does Philby still exist ? Where now 
Are Willis, Wilcox, Green, and Howe? 

Ann Wright, the smart and handy 
Hillman alone a respite steals 
From Fate ; and — 7'/w Hadley — deals 

In tea and sugar-candy. 



Can I my school-friend Belson track? 

Where hides him Chamberlaine ? where Black, 

Intended for the altar? 
Docs life-blood circulate in Bates? 
Where are Jack Cumbcrlcge. ard Yates? 

The Burrells, Charles and Walter? 



There, at your ink-bespattered shrine 
Cornelius Nepos first was mine ; 

Here fagged I hard at Plutarch : 
Found Ovid's mighty pleasant ways, 
While Plato's metaphysic maze 

Appeared like Pluto — too dark. 

Here usher Ireland sat — and there 
Stood Bolton, Cowel, Parker, Ware, 

Medley the pert and witty ; 
And here — crack station, near the fire 
Sat Roberts, whose Haymarket sire 

Sold oil and spermaceti. 

147 





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Yon pew the i^allery below 

Held Nancy, pride of Chigwell Row, 

Who set all hearts a-dancing : 
In bonnet white, divine brunette. 
O'er Burnet's field I see thee yet 

To Sunday church advancing. 

Seek we the churchyard ; there the yew 
Shades many a swain whom once I knew, 

Now nameless and forgotten ; 
Here towers Sir Edward's marble bier, 
Here lies stern Vickery, and here. 

My father's friend, Tom Cotton. 

The common herd serenely sleep, 
Turf-bound, " in many a mouldering heap " 

Pent in by bands of osier ; 
While at the altar's feet is laid 
The founder of the school, arrayed 

In mitre and in crosier. 

'Tis nature's law : wave urges wave : 
The coffined grandsire seeks the grave ; 

The babe that feeds by suction 
Finds with his ancestor repose : 
Life ebbs, and dissolution sows 

The seeds of reproduction. 

World, in thy ever-busy mart 
I've acted no unnoticed part — 

Would I resume it .'' oh no ! 
Four acts are done, the jest grows stale ; 
The waning lamps burn dim and pale, 

And reason asks — Ci/i bono ? 

I've met with no "affliction sore;" 

But hold! methinks, "long time I bore j''^ ■ 

Here ends my lucubration- 
Content, with David's son, to know 
That all is vanity below, 

Though not quite all vexation. 




148 




'^WW^ 





WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 

1802 — 1839. 

At Eton Praed distinguished himself by his share in a Magazine 
to which Macaulay and Moultrie both contributed. In later years, 
when he became the delight of the society which he adorned, he 
still continued to write highly polished and skilful verse, full of 
subtle and delicate observation, and pleasant refined humour. Such 
poems as the "Vicar" and " Quince" are like the cabinet pictures 
of Metzu or Terburg, with an infusion of the courtliness of Vandyke 
and the humour of Wilkie. The perfumed air of the drawing-room 
steals round us while we read. It was Praed who first raised the 
Charade to the rank of a poem. It was perhaps a waste of time 
and a misplacing of talent. It was like jewelling an ettii or a knee- 
buckle ; but Praed delighted to please and amuse those among 
whom he lived, and he has obtained a fame which he did not seek, 
and which he did not expect. His "Vicar," certainly his chef 
d'ceuvre, is finished with the care of an inlaid Indian box. 

CHARADE, 

ON THE POET CAMPBELL. 

- Come from my First, ay, come ! 
The battle dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 
Are calling thee to die ! 
Fight as thy father fought, 
Fall as thy father fell, 
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; 
So — forward ! and farewell ! 
149 





''TriZ 




Toll yc my Second, toll I 

Fling high the flambeau's light ! 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul, 

Beneath the silent night ! 

The wreath upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast, 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed 

So take him to his rest ! 

Call ye my Whole, ay, call ! 

The lord of lute and lay ; 
And let him greet the sable pall 

With a noble song to-day ; 

Go, call him by his name ; 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldier's ^rave. 



In certain moods Praed's verses resemble Hood's ; they may not 
have the depth and tenderness of Hood, but they have the same 
whimsical surprises, and the same startling, sparkling play of 
words. How light, graceful, and fluent the following verses run, 
on springs as elastic as those of a West End barouche I — 




THE VICAR. 

Some years ago, ere Time and Taste 

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way between 

Saint Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket 
Was always shown across the green, 

And euided to the Parson's wicket. 



Back flew the bolt, of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtlc 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and m)rtle : 
ISO 



':^^ 



\ 



And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlour steps collected, 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, 

" Our master knows you ; you're expected I " 

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 

Uprose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" 
The lady laid her knittmg down. 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow ; 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end. 

And warmed himself in court or college, 
He had not gained an honest friend. 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; — 
If he departed as he came, 

With no new light on love or liquor ;— 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the A'icarage or the Vicar. 

His talk was like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from rock to roses : 
It slipped from politics to puns : 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses : 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep. 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

He wrote, too, in a quiet way 

Small treatises and smaller verses ; 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 

And hints to noble lords and nurses ; 
True histories of last year's ghost, 

Lines to a ringlet or a turban. 
And trifles for the Mornijig Post, 

And nothings for Svlvanus Urban. 



He did not think all mischief fair, 
Altliough he had a knack of joking 

151 







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He did not make himself a bear ; 

Although he had a taste for smoking ; 
And when religious sects ran mad, 

He held, in spite of all his learning, 
That, if a man's belief is bad. 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 

In the low hut or garnished cottage. 
And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pottage : 
At his approach complaint grew mild, 

And when his hand unbarred the shutter, 
The clammy lips of fever smiled 

The welcome which they could not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Caesar or of Venus : 
From him I learned the- rule of three, 

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and qua genus ; 
I used to singe his powdered wig. 

To steal the staff he put such trust in ; 
And make the puppy dance a jig 

When he began to quote Augustine. 

Alack the change ! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled ; 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, ~ 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage entry : 
It holds three hundred people more ; 

And pews are fitted up for gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat, you'll hear 

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear 

Where phrase is very Ciceronian. 
Where is the old man laid ?— look down, 

And construe on the slab before you. 
Hie jacet Gui.ielmus Brown, 

Vir nulla non Donandus Laitru. 



m 



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IX 








asantest little poems on his schoolfellows (for 
Eton) is the following : — 




SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

Twelve years ago I made a mock 

Of filthy trades and traffics : 
I wondered what they meant by " stock ; " 

I wrote delightful sapphics ; 
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy; 

I supped with Fates and Furies ; 
Twelve years ago I was a boy, 

A happy boy, at Diury's. 

Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought 

Of faded pains and pleasures. 
Those whispered syllables have brought 

From memory's hoarded treasures ! 
The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books 

The glories and disgraces, 
The voices of dear friends, the looks 

Of ol(^ familiar faces. 



Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball 

That rattled like a rocket ; 
Now hearing Wentworth's "fourteen all 

And striking for the pocket ; 
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — 

Now drinking from the pewter ; 
Now leaping over Chalvey Ditch, 

Now laughing at m)- tutor. 

Where are my friends .'' — I am alone, 

No playmate shares my beaker — 
Some lie beneath the church-yard stone, 

And some before the Speaker ; 
And some compose a tragedy, 

And some compose a rondo ; 
And some draw sword for liberty. 

And some draw pleas for John Doc. 
^53 




'^y>r 






Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes, 

Without the fear of sessions ; 
Charles Medler loathed false quantities 

As much as false professions ; 
Now Mill keeps order in the land, 

A magistrate pedantic ; 
And Medler's feet repose unscanned 

Beneath the wide Atlantic. 

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. 

Does Dr. Martext's duty ; 
And MuUion, with that monstrous chin, 

Is married to a beauty ; 
And Darrel studies, week by week, 

His Mant, and not his Manton ; 
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 

Is very rich at Canton. 

And I am eight-and-twenty now — 

The world's cold chain has bound me ; 
And darker shades are on my brow— 

And sadder scenes around me : 
In Parliament I fill my seat 

With many other noodles ; 
And lay my head in Jermyn Street, 

And sip my hock at Boodle's. 

But often when the cares of life 

Have set my temples aching. 
When visions haunt me of a wife, 

When duns await my waking. 
When Lady Jane is in a pet, 

Or Hoby in a hurry, 
When Captain Hazard wins a bet. 

Or Beaulieu spoils a curry : 

For hours and hours I think and talk 
Of each remember'd hobby ; 

I long to lounge in Poet's Walk- 
To shiver in the Lobby ; 
154 








I wish that I could run away 

From House and Court and Levee, 

Where bearded men appear to-day, 
Just Eton boys grown heavy : 



That I could bask in childhood's sun, 

And dance o'er childhood's roses ; 
And find huge wealth in one pound one, 

Vast wit in broken noses ; 
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 

And call the milk-maids Houris ; 
That I could be a boy again, 

A happy boy, at Drury's I 

There is no great profundity of thought in these verses ; but how 
exquisitely the lines are turned 1 and with delicate art the Drawing 
room Poet hides his real feeling under a mask of playfulness. 





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THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 

1797— 1839. 

A MAN of the world and a poet, with a versatile prolific fancy, 
and an exquisite sensibility of the graceful and the beautiful, is not 
to be despised. Bayly's songs stir the fancy and rouse the feeling, 
they were never intended to appeal to the understanding. We 
cannot blame the butterfly because it is not an eagle, or the apple 
because it is not a nectarine. 

/ I'D BE A BUTTERFLY, BORN IN A BOWER. 

I'd be a Butterfly, born in a bower 

Where roses and lilies and violets meet ; 
Roving for ever from flower to flower, 

And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet I 
I'd never languish for wealth or for power ; 

I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet : 
I'd be a Butterfly, born in a bower, 

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 

O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, 

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings : 
Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy. 

They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary ; 

Power, alas ! nought but misery brings ; 
I'd be a Butterfly, sportive and airy. 

Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings. 



What though you tell me each gay little rover 

Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day ! 
Surely 'tis better when summer is over 

To die when all fair things are fading away. 
Some in life's winter may toil to discover 

Means of procuring a weary delay — 
I'd bo a Butterfly ; living a rover, 

Dying when fair things are fading away. 
156 







When I was a schoolboy, aged ten, 

Oh, mighty httle Greek I knew ; 
With my short striped trousers, and now and then 

With stripC'3 upon my jacket too ! 
When I saw other boys to the playground run, 

I threw my old " Gradus " by, 
And I left the task I had scarce begun. 

There'll be time enough for that, said I. 

When I was at college, my pride was di'ess, 

And my groom and my bit of blood ; 
But as for my study, I must confess 

That I was content with my stud. 
I was deep in my tradesmen's books, I'm afraid, 

Though not in my own, by the by ; 
And when rascally tailors came to be paid, 

There'll be time enough for that, said I. 

I was just nineteen when I first fell in love, 

And I scribbled a deal of rhyme ; 
And I talked to myself in a shady grove, 

And I thought I was quite sublime ; 
I was torn from my love! 'twas a dreadful blow, 

And the lady she wiped her eye ; 
But I didn't die of grief, oh, dear me, no 1 

There 11 be time enough for that, said I, 

The next was a lady of rank, a dame 

With blood in her veins, you see ; 
With the leaves of the Peerage she fanned the flame 

That was now consuming me. 
But though of her great descent she spoke, 

I found she was still very high. 
And I thought looking up to a wife no joke. 

There'll be time enough for that, said I. 

My next penchant was for one whose face 

Was her fortune, she was so fair ! 
Oh I she spoke with an air of enchanting grace, — 

But a man cannot live upon air \ 
157 



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iTc^ 



12. 



And when poverty enters the door young Love 

Will out of the casement fly ; 
The truth of the proverb I'd no wish to prove, 

There'll be time enough for that, said I. 

My next was a lady who loved romance, 

And wrote very splendid things ; 
And she said with a sneer, when I asked her to dance, 

" Sir, I ride upon a horse with wings." 
There was ink on her thumb when I kissed her hand, 

And she whispered, " If you should die 
I'll write you an epitaph, gloomy and grand;" 

There'll be time enough for that, said I. 

I left her, and sported my figure and face 

At opera, party, and ball ; 
I met pretty girls at every place, 

But I found a defect in all ! 
The first did not suit me, I cannot tell how, 

The second I cannot say why ; 
And the third, bless me ! I will not marry now, 

There'll be time enough for that, said I. 

I looked in the glass, and I thought I could trace 
A sort of a wrinkle or two ; 

So 1 made up my mind that I'd make up my face. 
And come out as good as new. 

To my hair I imparted a little more jet, 
And I scarce could suppress a sigh ; 

But I cannot be quite an old Bachelor yet- 
No, there's time enough for that, said I. 

I was now fifty-two, yet I still did adopt 

All the airs of a juvenile beau ; 
But, somehow, whenever a question I popped 

The girls with a laugh said " No ! " 
1 am sixty to-day, not a very young man. 

And a bachelor doomed to die ; 
So, youth, be advised, and marry while you can, 

There's no time to be lost, say I. 




^^^rx>^^ 



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BEAU BRUMMELL. 

1778 — 1840. 

There was a certain sense of poetical grace about the old 
dandy, as the subjoined verses show. A heartless life led with him 
to a miserable death ; a beggar in a foreign country, to the last 
poor Brummell aped the highflown and artificial courtesy that had 
been the ideal of his life. 



THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL. 

Oh ye ! \\ho so lately were blithesome and gay, 
At the Butterfly's banquet carousing away ; 
Your feasts and your revels of pleasure are fled, 
For the soul of the banquet, the Butterfly's dead ! 

No longer the Flies and the Emmets advance 

To join with their friend in the Grasshopper's dance ; 

For see his thin form o'er the favourite bend, 

And the Grasshopper mourns for the loss of his friend. 

And hark ! to the funeral dirge of the Bee, 
And the Beetle, who follows as solemn as he ; 
And see where so mournful the green rushes wave, 
The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave, 
'59 



J 



.y, 








The Dormouse attended, but cold and forlorn, 
And the Gnat slowly winded his shrill little horn ; 
And the Moth, who was grieved for the loss of a sister, 
Bent over the body, and silently kissed her. 




The corse was embalmed at the set of the sun, 

And enclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun ; 

By the help of the hornet the coffin was laid 

On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made. 

In weepers and scarves came the Butterflies all, 

And six of their number supported the pall ; 

And the Spider came there, in his mourning so black, 

But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back 

The Grub left his nut-shell to join in the throng, 
And slowly led with him the Bookworm along. 
Who wept his poor neighbour's unfortunate doom, 
And wrote these few lines to be placed on her tomb : — 



EPITAPH. 

At this solemn spot, where the green I'ushes wave, 
Here sadly we bent o'er the Butterfly's grave ; 
'Twas here we to beauty our obsequies paid. 
And hallowed the mound which her ashes had made. 

And here shall the daisy and violet blow, 
And the lily discover her bosom of snow ; 
While under the leaf in the evenings of spring, 
Still mourning his friend shall the Grasshopper sing. 




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THEODORE E. HOOK, 

1788 — 1842. 

The poetry of Hook consists of little but excellent farcical 
rhymes and buffoonery in verse. It is only lightened here and 
there by such lines as these we quote. This brilliant man, after 
a gay but wasted life, died hopelessly in debt, neglected and 
deserted by the herd that he had wasted his extraordinary talent 
in amusing. 

LINES FROM THE HEART. 

Sweet is the vale where virtue dwells, 

The vale where honest love invites, 
By margined brook or moss-grown cells, 

To taste its joys, its soft delights. 
Sweet is the vale where oft I've strayed 

Through tangled brake or meadow green ; 
Sweet are its groves, and sweet its shade, 

The verdant vale of Taunton Dean. 

If friends the wayworn stranger seeks 

Whose kindness comfort can impart. 
Here every tongue a welcome speaks, 

A home he finds in every heart. 
Nay, when I hear the cynic cry 

"No friendship in the world is seen," 
My fleeting thoughts to Taunton fly, 

For friendship dwells in Taunton Dean. 

The bandage once from Cupid's eyes 

By reason and by prudence drawn. 
The wanton god to Taunton flies 

To revel on its daisied lawn. 
For oh ! 'tis sure where Beauty plays 

Love in its ecstasy is seen ; 
His sight restored he onward strays : 

.She holds her court in Taunton Dean. 

161 V 




-V. 



^„ 




And if amid the brilliant throng 

One angel girl appears most fair, 
After his flight would Love be wrong 

To claim her heart, and settle there ? 
My Rosa's eye, her peach-bloom cheek. 

Her smile divine, her look serene, 
Command the god— he dares not speak, 

But owns her sway in Taunton Dean. 



^^ 



Grant me a cot wherein to live 

With such a girl, with friends so rare. 
No greater boon need Fortune give. 

Save what my wants might warrant there. 
'Tis all I hope, — 'tis all I seek. 

For there all bliss, all joy is seen ; 
In one short prayer, my wishes speak. 

To live, to die, in Taunton Dean. 



'^ 




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ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



This vigorous and excellent ballad writer was the son of a 
builder in Dumfriesshire. He came to London, connected himself 
with the newspaper press, and became clerk of the works to 
Chantrey the sculptor. It is a great misfortune to his fame that 
some of his best works were passed off as bond fide old Galloway 
and Nithsdale ballads. It is not too much to say that these 
counterfeit ballads are as full of pathos, tenderness, and rough 
vigour, as the poems that they imitate. 

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 



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O ! my love's like the stedfast sun, 

Or streams that deepen as they run ; 

Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 

Nor moments between sighs and tears, 

Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. 

Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain, 

Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows 

To sober joys and soften woes. 

Can make my heart or fancy flee 

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 
In maiden bloom and matron wit — 
Fair, gentle as when first I sued. 
Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
As when, beneath Arbigland Tree, 
We strayed and wooed, and thought the moon 
Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 
Or lingered 'mid the falling dew. 
When looks were fond and words were few. 
163 



(O 



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Though 1 see smiHng at ihy feet 

Five sons and a fair daughter sweet 

And time, and care, and birth-time woes 

Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose 

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 

All that charms me of tale or song ; 

When words come down like dews unsought, 

With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, 

And fancy in her heaven flies free— 

They conie, my love, they come from thee. 

O, when more thought we gave of old 

To silver than some give to gold ; 

Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 

What things should deck our humble bower ! 

'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee 

The golden fruit from Fortune's tree ; 

And sweeter still to chose and twine 

A garland for these locks of thine — 

A song- wreath which may grace my Jean, 

While rivers flow and woods are green. 

At times there come, as come there ought. 
Grave moments of sedater thought— 
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
Shines like the rainbow through the shower, 
O, then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; 
And proud resolve and purpose meek, 
Speak of thee more than words can speak : 
I think the wedded wife of mine 
The best of all that's not divine. 



164 




^y 






/ give viy soldier-boy a blade, 

In fair Damascus fashioned well ; 
Who first the glittering falchion swayed, 

Who first beneath its fury fell, 
I know not, but I hope to know 

That for no mean or hireling trade, 
To guard no feeling base or low, 

/ give my soldier-boy a blade. 

Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood 

In which its tempering work was done ; 
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood. 

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. 
For country's claim, at honour's call. 

For outraged friend, insulted maid, 
At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 

/ give my soldier-boy a blade. 

The eye which marked its peerless edge, 

The hand that weighed its balanced poise. 
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, 

Are gone, with all their flame and noise— 
And still the gleaming sword remains ; 

So when in dust I low am laid. 
Remember, by these heart-felt strains. 

/ gave viy soldier-boy a blade. 
165 







SOUTHEY wrote a great deal of diffuse poetry, now partially 
forgotten. He over-read himself, choking his imagination with 
books that contained other men's thoughts. There is great purity 
of feeling and learned imagination, though little dramatic power 
in Southey's poems. 

THE HOLLY TREE. 

O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The Holly Tree? 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen. 
No grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound, 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 
1 65 






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I love to view these things with curious eyes, 

And moralize ; 
And in the wisdom of the Holly Tree 

Can emblems see 
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
Such as may profit in the after-time. 

So, though abroad perchance I might appear 

Harsh and austere ; 
To those who on my leisure would intrude, 

Reserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know. 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I day by day 

Would wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 

And as when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display 

Less bright than they. 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree? 

So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng. 
So would I seem amid the young and gay 

More grave than they. 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the Hollv Tree. 



^3^ 





Campbell is always a puzzle to us. How could such a precise 
and trim man (Scotch too of all things) beginning with mechanical 
heroic verse, and big-wig metaphors of the old school, suddenly 
spring forth into the fire of " Hohenlinden," the thunder march of 
" Lochiel," and the exulting "Battle of the Baltic?" Above all, 
how, having written such poems, could he refrain from writing 
more? Probably for the same reason that a not very dissimilar 
genius. Gray, wrote so little — a prudish and almost pedantic desire 
for perfection, correcting and correcting till all "grew ripe and 
rotten." 



FIELD FLOWERS. 



Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true. 
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you. 

For ye waft me to summers of old, 
When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight. 
And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, 

Like treasures of silver and gold. 



t'^. 



I love you for lulling me back into dreams 

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, 

And of birchen glades breathing their balm. 
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote. 
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note 

Made music that sweetened the calm. 

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : 

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, . 
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find. 
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind. 

And your blossoms were part of her spell. 




gi.;^^-5^ 




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Even now what affections the violet awakes ; 
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, 

Can the wild water-hly restore; 
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks. 
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks 

In the vetches that tangled their shore! 

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear 
Ere the fever of passion or ague of fear 

Had scathed my existence's bloom ; 
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage 
With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 

And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 






THOMAS HOOD. 

1798—1845. 

This exquisite humorist was the son of a London bookseller. 
Originally intended as a merchant's clerk, he first turned engraver, 
and finally author. With the gloom of chronic disease upon 
him, he toiled bravely and arduously for his family, lighting our 
murky London air with jokes that sparkled like the star sparks of 
fireworks. He excelled both in pathos and humour: his "Dream 
of Eugene Aram " is vigorous and passionate ; his " Miss Kil- 
mansegg" is irresistibly droll, and spangled with gems of ex- 
quisite and thoughtful nonsense. In his "Song of the Shirt," 
which appeared in Punch, Hood rose to a higher flight, and 
touched the deeper cords of the human heart. True to the finer 
utilitarianism of our age, the poet wished to have this line alone 
inscribed upon his grave, 

"He wrote 'The Song of the Shirt.'" 

Those who have themselves suffered can best sympathize with 
the miseries of the poor. An invalid for half his life as Hood was, 
it is not any wonder that thoughts upon physical suffering are 
frequent in his writings — unconsciously they crept in as some pang 
of pain followed the laugh that always came from the heart. An 
honest and industrious writer for daily bread (the nightingale 
perhaps requires the thorn at its breast), Hood had acquired 
an extraordinary command of words, his power of pleating and 
twisting phrases was miraculous ; some of his poems he enclosed 
in crystal tear drops, while others he cut into as many facets as if 
they had been rose diamonds. 



IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER. 

It was not in the winter 
Our loving lot was cast ; 

It was the time of Roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 
170 









That churlish season never frowned 

On early lovers yet : — 
Oh, no — the world was newly crowned 

With flowers when first we met I 

'Tvvas twilight, and I bade you go, 

But still you held me fast ; 
It was the time of Roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed. 

What else could peer thy glowing cheek, 

That tears began to stud ? 
And when I asked the like of Love, 

You snatched a damask bud ; 

And oped it to the dainty core. 

Still glowing to the last. — 
It was the time of Roses, 

We plucked them as we passed. 







^ 



LAMAN BLANCHARD. 

1803—1845. 

In the nourishing sunshine of success, this cultivated writer 
would certainly have done great things. With greater depth than 
Bayley, much of the fancy of Barry Cornwall, and with a command 
of language that is unusual, Mr. Blanchard wrote verses beautiful 
in their refinement, and springing from the true source. 

THE POET'S HEART 

'Tis like unto that dainty flower 
That shuts by day its fragrance up, 
And lifts unto a darkened hour 
Its little essence-cup. 

'Tis as the grape on which it lives ; 

That pleasure-ripened heart must be 

In sorrow crushed, or ere it gives 

The wine of poesy. 

Or like some silver-winged fly, 
By taper tempted from its flight, 
tt sparkles, faints, falls quiveringly, 
And mingles with the light. 

And sure it bears a fortune such 
As waits upon that graceful bird, 
Whose music, mute to living touch, 
At death's dim porch is heard. 

And still the dolphin's fate partakes : 
Though bright the hue which pride hath given, 
'Tis pain whose darting pencil wakes 
The master-tints of heaven. | 
172 







A mine where many a living "em 
In cell so deep lies casketed, 
That man sends down a sigh for them. 
And turns away his head. 

But not that dainty flower, the grape, 
The insect's sufferance and devotion ; 
The swan's life-ending song, and shape 
Diviner with emotion : — 

And not the dolphin's sacrifice, 
The mine's most rare and dazzling part— 
O ! not all these could pay its price, 
Or form one poet's heart. 





.Q» 




'aM^^^^..^^^^ 







^Qt 




REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. 

1788—1845. 

The " Ingoldsby Legends " are now classical ; occasionally 
somevhat coarse and ribald, they are delightful for their super- 
abundant fun, wonderful grotesque rhymes, and facile humour. 
We have taken Barham at somewhat more serious moments, 
and intent on a quieter fun. 

J SONG. 

There sits a bird on yonder tree. 

More fond than cushat dove ; 
There sits a bird on yonder tree, 

And sings to me of love. 

Oh ! stoop thee from thine eyrie down. 

And nestle thee near my heart, 

For the moments Hy, 

And the hour is nigh 

When thou and I must part, 

My love ! 
When thou and I must part. 

In yonder covert lui"ks a fawn, 

The pride of the sylvan scene ; 
In yonder covert lurks a fawn, 

And I am his only queen ; 
174 



-^^-^.^.^Jjt^^ka^^ 



j^ 




Oh ! bound from thy secret lair, 
For the sun is below the west 
No niortal eye 
May our meeting spy. 
For all are closed in rest, 

My love ! 
Each eye is closed in rest. 

Oh ! sweet is the breath of morn 

When the sun's first beams appear ; 
Oh ! sweet is the shepherd's strain 

When it dies on the listening ear ; 
And sweet the soft voice which speaks 
The wanderer's welcome home ; 
But sweeter far 
By yon pale mild star 
With our true love thus to roam, 

My dear ! 
With our own true love to roam. 



REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



W 



A feeling sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground 
Where Tudors and Plantagenets were lying all around : 
I stepped with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal tread 
Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the 
mighty dead I 

The slanting rays of the evening sun shone through those cloisters 
pale 

With fitful light on regal vest and warrior's sculptured mail ; 

As from the stained and storied pane it danced with quivering- 
gleam. 

Each cold and prostrate form below seemed c[uickening in the ^K^-^ 
beam. 



y 



Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell. 
And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell : 
It died— and not a breath did stir ; — above each knightly stall 
Unmoved the bannered blazonry hung waveless as a pall. 

175 




I stood alone ! — a living thing 'midst those that were no more— 
I thought on ages past and gone — the glorious deeds of yore — 
On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain, 
The fatal Roses twined at length, on great Eliza's reign. 




I thought on Naseby — Marston Moor — on Worcester's 'crowning 

fight;' 
When on mine ear a sound there fell — it chilled me with affright 
As thus in low unearthly tones I heard a voice begin, 
' — This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk!— Sir! please put 

summut in ! ' 



AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE. 

THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBV. 

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye ; 
There came a noble Knyghte, 
With his hauberke shynynge brighte, 
And his gallant heart was lyghte, 
Free and gay ; 
As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye. 

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree ! 
There seemed a crimson plain 
Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne. 
And a steed with broken rein 
Ran free, 
As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see ! 

As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe ; 
A lovely Mayde came by, 
And a gentil youth was nyghe. 
And he breathed many a syghe 
And a vowe ; 
As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now. 
176 






As I lave a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne ; 

No more a youth was there, 

But a maiden rent her haire, 

And cried in sad despaire, 
' That I was borne ! ' 
As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne. 

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge. 
Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar ; 
There came a lovely Childe, 
And his face was meek and mild. 
Yet joyously he smiled 
On his sire ; 
As I lay a thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire. 

But I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge. 
And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon a bier ; 

That joyous smile was gone. 

And the face was white and wan, 

As the downe upon the Swan 
Doth appear, 
As I lay a-thynkynge —oh ! bitter flowed the tear ! 

As I lay a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, 
O merrie sang the Birde as it glittered on Iier breast 
With a thousand gorgeous dyes, 
While soaring to the skies, 
'Mid the stars she seemed to rise, 
As to her nest ; 
As I lay a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest :— 

' Follow, follow me away, 
It boots not to delay,'— 
'Twas so she seemed to saye, 
'Here is rest !' 



fy=>JL^^ 



177 




/x 



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^^ 



^ 



^^ 



THE MISSES BRONTE. 

ANNE BRONTE (ACTON BELL). 1S20-1849. 

Geniuses are like mushrooms, they spring up, unstudied and 
unheeded, in all sorts of quiet unobserved places. This wonderful 
family of a Yorkshire rector, nurtured with a gloomy severity in a 
lonely dull place, broke into blossom with the suddenness and 
lavishness of an Indian jungle. Their poetry does not equal their 
passionately earnest novels, but it still has a merit of its own. 

HOME. 

How brightly glistening in the sun 

The woodland ivy plays ! 
While yonder beeches from their barks 

Reflect his silver rays. 

That sun surveys a lovely scene 

From softly smiling skies ; 
And wildly through unnumbered trees 

The wind of winter sighs : 

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head 

And now in distance dies. 
But give me back my barren hills 

Where colder breezes rise ; 

Where scarce the scattered stunted trees 

Can yield an answering swell, 
But where a wilderness of heath 

Returns the sound as well. 

For yonder garden, fair and wide, 

With groves of evergreen. 
Long winding walks and borders trim, 

And velvet lawns between ; 
178 





± 



Restore to me that little spot 

With grey walls compassed round, 

Where knotted grass neglected lies, 
And weeds usurp the ground. 

Though all around this mansion high 

Invites the foot to roam, 
And though its halls are fair within — 

Oh ! give me back my HOME. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE (CURRER BELL). 1S17— 1855. 
THE LETTER. 

What is she writing.'' watch her now, 

How fast her fingers move ! 
How eagerly her youthful brow 

Is bent in thought above ! 
Her long curls drooping shade the light, 

She puts them quick aside, 
Nor knows that band of crystals bright 

Her hasty touch untied. 
It slips adown her silken dress. 

Falls glittering at her feet ; 
Unmarked it falls, for she no less 

Pursues her labour sweet. 




The very loveliest hour that shines 

Is in that deep blue sky ; 
The golden sun of June declines. 

It has not caught her eye. 
The cheerful lawn and unclosed gate. 

The white road far away. 
In vain for her light footsteps wait, 

She comes not forth to-day. 
There is an open door of glass 

Close by that lady's chair. 
From thence to slopes of mossy grass 

Descends a marble stair. 
179 



'^ 





Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom ^ 

Around the threshold grow ; 
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room 

From that sun's deepening glow. 
Why does she not a moment glance 

Between the clustering flowers, 
And mark in heaven the radiant dance 

Of evening's rosy hours ?^ 
O look again ! Still fixed her eye. 

Unsmiling, earnest, still, 
And fast her pen and fingers fly 

Urged by her eager will. 

Her soul is in the absorbing task ; 

To whom then doth she write? 
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask 

Her own eyes' serious light. 
Where do they turn, as now her pen 

Hangs o'er the unfinished line ? 
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then 

Did in their dark spheres shine ? 
The summer-parlour looks so dark 

When from that sky you turn, 
And from the expanse of that green park. 

You scarce may aught discern. 



Yet o'er the piles of porcelain rare, 

O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase, 
Sloped, as if leaning on the air, 

One picture meets the gaze. 
'Tis there she turns ; you may not 

Distinct, what form defines 
The clouded mass of mystery 

Yon broad gold frame confines. 
But look again ; inured to shade 

Your eyes now faintly trace 
A stalwart form, a massive head, 

A firm determined face. 



Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek 
A brow high, broad, and white, 
1 80 





Where every furrow seems to speak 

Of mind and moral might. 
Is that her god ? I cannot tell ; 

Her eye a moment met 
The impending picture, then it fell 

Darkened and dimmed and wet. 
A moment more, her task is done. 

And sealed the letter lies ; 
And now towards the setting sun 

She turns her tearful eyes. 

Those tears flow over, wonder not, 

For by the inscription see 
In what a strange and distant spot 

Her heart of hearts must be ! 
Three seas and many a league of land 

That letter must pass o'er 
Ere read by him to whose loved hand 

'Tis sent from England's shore. 
Remote colonial wilds detain 

Her husband, loved though stern ; 
She 'mid that smiling English scene 

Weeps for his wished return. 




i8r 






M-nC^^ 



This great meditative poet was the philosopher of the Enghsh 
Parnassus. He taught us to see the deeper truths of nature, and 
to discover poetry in the simplest things. The lowliest life had 
charms for him, and he taught us to regard the meanest flower 
with love and awe. 



LOUISA. ' 

I met Louisa in the shade ; 

And, having seen that lovely maid, 

Why should I fear to say 
That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong ; 
Aaid down the rocks can leap along 

Like rivulets in May ? 

And she hath smiles to earth unknown, 
Smiles that with motion of their own 

Do spread and sink and rise, 
That come and go with endless play, 
And ever, as they pass away. 

Are hidden in her eyes. 
182 







^A 



\r 





She loves her hre, her cottage-home ; 
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 

In weather rough and bleak ; 
And when against the wind she strains. 
Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 

That sparkle on her check ! 

Take all that's mine " beneath the moon," 
If I with her but half a noon 

May sit beneath the walls 
Of some old cave or mossy nook, 
When up she winds along the brook 

To hunt the waterfalls. 

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! — 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me ! 

POOR SUSAN. 

At the corner of Wood Street when daylight appears 
There's a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

183 



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■^) 






Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in Heaven : but they fade. 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ; 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 



^•^ 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 

1 saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin-liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food, 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
1 84 



t-o3- 



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A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something- of an angel light. 



YARROW UNVISITED. 

l"'rom Stirling Castle we had seen 

The mazy Forth unravelled. 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay 

And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my " winsome marow," 
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 

And see the Braes of Yarrow." 



rO~ 






'^ 



" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
Who have been buying, selling, 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own, 
Each maiden to her dwelling ! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow, 

But we will downwards with the Tweed, 
Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 




■'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 
And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed 

The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land 

Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 

To go in search of \'arrow ? 

" What's Yarrow but a river bare 
That glides the dark hills under .'' 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of youi- wonder." 
185 





—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; 

My true-love sighed for sorrow, 
And looked me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

"O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 

But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path and open strath 

We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 

Into the dale of Yarrow. 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 

Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go 

To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 

There's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ; 

It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own. 

Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
The treasured dreams of times long past. 

We'll keep them, winsome marrow ! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 

'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

" If care with freezing years should come 

And wandering seem but folly,— 
Should we be loth to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow 
That earth has something yet to show, 

The bonny Holms of Yarrow ! " 
186 





i^;^ 



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fC*BsjiO«>'5 



^ 




I WANDERED LONELY. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of dancing daftbdils, 

Along the lake, beneath 'the trees, 

Ten thousand dancing in the breeze. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 

A Poet could not but be gay 

In such a laughing company ! 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought 



For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
And dances with the daffodills. 




1 87 





WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 

1762 — 1850. 

Bowles's Sonnets influenced the genius of Coleridge. His poetry 
is as elegant and correct as that of Rogers. There is a charm in 
his sober and truthful painting that is delightful in its quietude. 



WATER-PARTY ON BEAULIEU RIVER, 



IN THE NEW FOREST. 



June, 1793. 



I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy- -a dream 
That leads with illusion the senses astray. 

And I sighed with delight, as we stole down the stream, 
While Eve, as she smiled on our sail, seemed to say, 
" Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away ! " 

We left the loud rocking of ocean behind. 

And stealing along the clear current serene, 

The 'Phajdria' spread her white sails to the wind, 
And they who divided had many a day been, 
Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene 

Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel, 

VVe heard not the tossing, the stir, and the war 

Of the ocean without ; we heard but the keel. 

The keel that went whispering along the green shore, 
And the stroke, as it dipped, of the feathering oar. 

Beneath the dark woods now as winding we go, 

What sounds of rich harmony burst on the ear ; 

Hark ! cheerly the loud-swelling clarionets blow : 

Now the tones gently die, now more mellow we hear 
The horns through the high forest echoing clear. 
188 




They cease, and no longer the echoes prolong 
The swell of the concert : in silence we float. 

In silence? O listen! 'tis woman's sweet song; 
The bends of the river reply to each note, 
And the oar is held dripping and still from the boat. 

Mark the sun that descends on the curve of the flood ! 
Seize, Wilmot,* the pencil, and instant convey 

To the tablet the water, the banks, and the wood, 

That their colours may live without change or decay, 
When these beautiful tints die in darkness away. 

So when we are parted, and tossed on the deep. 

And no longer the light on our prospects shall gleam. 

The semblance of one lovely scene we may keep, 

And remember the day, and the hour, like a dream 
When we sighed with delight as we stole down the stream 



Mrs. Wilmot, well known for her great talents in drawing, &c. 





Moore may be said to have remodelled the poetry of Ireland, 
rewrote its old songs, and remoulded the most tender and patriotic 
of its legends. From the " green isle " he wandered to Persia 
and Hindostan, seeking fresh regions over which his muse might 
wander. Somewhat too cloying with incessant sweetness, his verse 
is always melodious and refined. 



TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. 



WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. 



Take back the Virgin Page 

White and unwritten still ; 
Some hand more calm and sage 

The leaf must fill. 
Thoughts came as pure as light — 

Pure as ev'n you require : 
But oh ! each word I write 

Love turns to fire. 



Yet let me keep the book : 
Oft shall my heart renew, 

When on its leaves I look, 
Dear thoughts of you. 
190 



m 



.(^ 



Like you, 'tis fair and bright ; 

Like you, too bright and fair 
To let wild passion write 

One wrong wish there. 

Haply, when from those eyes 

Far, far away I roam, 
Should calmer thoughts arise 

Towards you and home ; 
Fancy may trace some line 

Worthy those eyes to meet, 
Thoughts that not burn, but shine, 

Pure, calm, and sweet. 

And as o'er ocean far 

Seamen their records keep. 
Led by some hidden star 

Through the cold deep ; 
So may the words I write 

Tell through what storms I stray- 
YoH still the unseen light 

Guiding my way. 



THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 



'Tis believed that this harp which I wake now for thee, 
Was a siren of old who sung under the sea ; 
And who often at eve through the bright waters roved 
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved. 

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep. 
And in tears all the night her gold tresses to steep ; 
Till heaven looked with pity on true love so warm, 
And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form. 

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smiled the same- 
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame ; 
And her hair as let loose, o'er her white ami it fell, 
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell. 

191 




$.X^.^_l 





Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known 

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; 

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay 

To speak love when I'm near thee and grief when away. 



I 




THERE'S A BOWER OF ROSES BY BENDEMEER'S 
STREAM. 

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 

And the nightingale sings roimd it all the day long ; 

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, 
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. 

That bower and its music I never forget, 

But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, 

I think — Is the nightingale singing there yet? 

Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer? 

No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, 

But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone, 

And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave 
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. 

Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies 
An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 

Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer ! 



ft 



-V, 



192 




IMMW I.ANnsi AI'K. {Il'/A/ /VilOhh.) 





SAMUEL ROGERS. 

1763— 1855. 



It was a happy proof that, in our age, commerce and hterature 
may sometimes join hands, when a great banker took to writing 
poems. The genius of Rogers was cahn, equable, never soaring, 
and conscious of its own hmitations. A purity and classical 
refinement, with something of the amateur or dilettante element, 
pervades them, but not unpleasantly. 



TO . 

Go— you may call it madness, folly; 

You shall not chase my gloom away. 
There's such a charm in melancholy, 

I would not, if 1 could, be gay. 

Oh ! if you knew the pensive pleasure 
That fills my bosom, when I sigh. 

You would not rob me of a treasure 
Monarchs are too poor to buy. 



A WISH. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch. 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch 

And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

193 c C 



.v. 




Around my ivy'd porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing, 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village-church among the trees, 

Where first our marriage-vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 



ON 



ASLEEP 




Sleep on, and dream of heaven, 

Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, 

Thy rosy lips still wear a smile. 

And move, and breathe delicious sisrhs ! 



Ah ! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 

Ah ! now she inurmurs, now she speaks 
What most I wish — and fear to know. 

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 

Her fair hands folded on her breast. 
— And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 

A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure ! Above control. 

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ! 
And may the secret of thy soul 

Remain within its sanctuary ! 



AN ITALIAN SONG. 

Dear is my little native vale, 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 
Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To every passing villager. 
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
And shells his nuts at liberty. 
194 




In orange-groves and myrtle-bovvers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 

I charm the fairy-foot-ed hours 
With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 

Or crowns of living laurel weave 

For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day, 
The ballet danced in twilight glade, 

The canzonet and roundelay 

Sung in the silent green-wood shade : 

These simple joys, that never fail, 

Shall bind me to my native vale. 




><^ 



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LEIGH HUNT. 

1784-1859. 

The clays when this graceful and sensitive poet roused Tory 
indignation by deriding the porthness of the Prince Regent have 
long since passed away. We no longer glow with anger, to find 
Leigh Hunt in raptures at the simple beauty of Hampstead lanes. 
The grasshopper still " catches his heart up at the sound of June " 
in his verse, and will do so for centuries. His affectations and 
prettinesses we forget when we remember the honesty of his 
sympathies, and the cloudless sunshine of his happy gaiety. 



RONDEAU. 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in : 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 

Say that health and wealth have missed me, 
Say I'm growing old, but add, 

Jenny kissed me. 



TO J. H., FOUR YEARS OLD 

A NURSERY SONG. 

Ah ! little ranting Johnny, 
For ever blithe and bonny, 
And singing nonny, nonny. 
With hat just thrown upon ye ; 
Or whistling like the thrushes, 
With voice in silver gushes ; 
196 





r 



Or twisting random, posies 

With daisies, weeds, and roses ; 

And strutting in and out so. 

Or dancing all about so, 

With cock-up nose so lightsome. 

And sidelong eyes so brightsome, 

And cheeks as ripe as apples, 

And head as rough as Uapple's, 

And arms as sunny shining 

As if their veins they'd wine in ; 

And mouth that smiles so truly, 

Heaven seems to have made it newly, 

It breaks into such sweetness 

With merry-lipped completeness ; — 

Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio, 

As blithe as Laughing Trio, 

— Sir Richard, too, you rattler. 

So christened from the Tattler,— 

My Bacchus in his glory, 

My little Cor-di-fiori. 

My tricksome Puck, my Robin, 

Who in and out come bobbing, 

As full of feints and frolic as 

That fibbing rogue Autolycus, 

And play the graceless robber on 

Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, — 

Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso, 

How can you, can you be so? 

One cannot turn a minute, 
But mischief, — there you're in it, 
A getting at my books, John, 
With mighty bustling looks, John ; 
Or poking at the roses, 
In midst of which your nose is : 
Or climbing on a table. 
No matter how unstable. 
And turning up your quaint eye 
And half-shut teeth, with " Mayn't I ? " 
Or else you're off at play, John, 
Just as you'd be all day, John, 
With hat or not, as happens, 
And there you dance and clap hands, 
197 



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Or on the grass go rolling 

Or plucking flowers, or bowling, 

And getting me expenses 

With losing balls o'er fences ; 

Or, as the constant trade is, 

Are fondled by the ladies. 

With " What a young rogue this is ! " 

Reforming him with kisses ; 

Till suddenly you cry out. 

As if you had an eye out. 

So desperately tearful. 

The sound is really fearful ; 

When lo ! directly after 

It bubbles into laughter. 

Ah rogue! and do you know, John, 
Why 'tis we love you so, John ? 
And how it is they let ye 
Do what you like and pet ye, 
Though all who look upon ye, 
Exclaim, "Ah Johnny, Johnny!" 
It is because you please 'em 
Still more, John, than you tease 'em ; 
Because, too, when not present 
The thought of you is pleasant ; 
Because, though such an elf, John, 
They think that if yourself, John, 
Had something to condemn too. 
You'd be as kind to them too ; 
In short, because you're very 
Good-tempered, Jack, and merry ; 
And are as quick at giving 
As easy at receiving ; 
And in the midst of pleasure 
Are certain to find leisure 
To think, my boy, of ours. 
And bring us lumps of flowers. 

But see, the sun shines brightly ; 
Come, put your hat on rightly, 
And we'll among the bushes, 
And hear your friends the thrushes ; 
And see what flowers the weather 
Has rendered fit to gather ; 
I 




And when we home must jog you 
Shall ride my back, you rogue you, 
Vour hat adorned with fine leaves, 
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves ; 
And so, with green o'erhead, John, 
Shall whistle home to bed, John. 



AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 

How sweet it were, if, without feeble fright. 

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight. 

An angel came to us, and we could bear 

To see him issue from the silent air 

At evening in our room, and bend on ours 

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 

News of dear friends, and children who have never 

Been dead indeed, — as we shall know for ever. 

Alas ! we think not what we daily see 

About our hearths,— angels, that are to be. 

Or may be, if they will, and we prepare 

Their souls and ours to meet in happy air ; — 

A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings 

In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. 




199 





rO~^ 



LORD MACAULAY. 

1800 — 1839. 

Who would ever have expected to find our great partisan his- 
torian and Indian statesman writing a valentine ? It is Hercules 
spinning for Omphale. The Roman ballads are robust and 
glorious, but then they are not occasional poems, and would not 
suit our purpose. 

SONG. 

O STAY, MADONNA ! STAY. 

O Stay, Madonna ! stay ; 

'Tis not the dawn of day 
That marks the skies with yonder opal streak; 

The stars in silence shine ; 

Then press thy lips to mine, 
And rest upon my neck thy fervid cheek. 

O sleep. Madonna ! sleep ; 

Leave me to watch and weep 
O'er the sad memory of departed joys, 

O'er hope's extinguished beam, 

O'er fancy's vanished dream. 
O'er all that nature gives and man destroys. 
200 




O wake, Madonna! wake; 

Even now the purple lake 
Is dappled o'er with amber flakes of light ; 

A glow is on the hill ; 

And every trickling rill 
In golden threads leaps down from yonder height. 

O fly, Madonna ! fly, 

Lest day and envy spy 
What only love and night may safely know : 

Fly, and tread softly, dear ! 

Lest those who hate us hear 
The sounds of thy light footsteps as they go. 



VALENTINE 



lU THE HON. MARY C. STANHOPE. 



Hail ! day of Music, day of Love, 

On earth below, in air above. 

In air the turtle fondly moans. 

The linnet pipes in joyous tones ; 

On earth the postman toils along. 

Bent double by huge bales of song. 

Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye, 

Blazes all Cupid's heraldry — 

Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows, 

Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows. 

What nymph without wild hopes and fears 

The double rap this morning hears ? 

Unnumbered lasses, young and fair, 

From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square, 

With cheeks high flushed and hearts loud beating, 

Await the tender annual greeting. 

The loveliest lass of all is mine — 

Good morrow to rny Valentine ! 

Good morrow, gentle child ! and then 
Again good morrow, and again. 
Good morrow following still good morrow, 
Without one clovid of strife or sorrow. 

20I D D 



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And when the god to whom we pay 
In jest our homages to-day 
Shall come to claim, no more in jest, 
His rightful empire o'er thy breast. 
Benignant may his aspect be, 
His yoke the truest liberty : 
And if a tear his power confess. 
Be it a tear of happiness. 
It shall be so. The Muse displays 
The future to her votary's gaze ; 
Prophetic rage my bosom swells— • 
I taste the cake— I hear the bells ! 
From Conduit Street the close array 
Of chariots barricades the way 
To where I see, with outstretched hand. 
Majestic, thy great kinsman stand,'"' 
And half unbend his brow of pride. 
As welcoming so fair a bride. 
Gay favours, thick as flakes of snow. 
Brighten S. George's portico : 
Within I see the chancel's pale, 
The orange flowers, the Brussels veil. 
The page on which those fingers white. 
Still trembling from the awful rite. 
For the last time shall faintly trace 
The name of Stanhope's noble race. 
I see kind faces round thee pressing, 
I hear kind voices whisper blessing ; 
And with those voices mingles mine- 
All good attend my Valentine ! 

St. Valentine's Day, 1851. 

* The statue of Pitt in Hanover Square. 







ou 





ROBERT B. BROUGH. 

1828— 1860. 

This young poet, whose life had no summer in it, but was all 
spring (a cold and bitter spring), was of a Liverpool family, and 
came to London to seek his fortunes. Glowing with genius and 
seething with irrestrainable radicalism, he produced no long and 
continuous work worthy of his fine powers. His chef d''(£U7're was 
this following exquisite paraphrase from a writer whose pathos and 
genial drollery he could so deeply appreciate. 

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. 

I have got a certain habit that approacheth to a merit. 
Yet is something of a weakness, and a trifle of a bore ; 

'Tis that, when I meet a pleasure, I must call a friend to share it, 
Or I miss of its enjoyment half the luxury or more. 

Thus, — when some good-natured crony sends a partridge or a 
pheasant, 

Or a trout, or river-salmon, that is not enough for two. 
For my life I can't sit down to dine alone, howe'er unpleasant 

Comes the mutton anti-climax that must eke the dinner through. 

Or, again,— Fve got a garden, rather famous for its roses. 

But still more so for its artichokes, its beans, and early peas ; 

Well, when any of these favourites begin to show their noses, 
I approach the garden-wall and cry, "Step here, sir, if you please." 



'Tis to Mr. Jones, my neighbour, to partake my exultation ; 

But, if Mr. Jones be absent from his rake and pruning-hook 
I must press the nearest biped in the cause of admiration, 

If it's only Tom the stable boy, or Margery the cook. 

203 





?rature's garden, when I've met a song or story 
has raised a pleasant smile, or caused a pleasant tear 
descend ; 
Should you chance to call upon me, be admonished I should bore ye 
With the whole of the transaction from beginning to the end. 

I've been reading in Boccaccio, where I've stumbled o'er a treasure 
That I'd somehow overlooked, although I've loved the book for 
years ; 

It's a quarter after midnight, and I can't expect the pleasure 
Of a visitor to favour me with sympathy and ears. 

So I'll put the tale on paper, just as well as I can do it 
(For I can't wait till the morning for a call from Mr. Jones) 

And I fancy, e'en in my hands, you'll be able to get through it, 
As, in any clumsy setting, we can value precious stones. 




It was in the land of gardens (by the way, I've never been there ; 

So the charms of " local colour " you had better not expect) — 
In a garden, among gardens. Nature's blue, and gold, and green, 
there 

Were concentred — as in Eden, Eve a bower might have dcck'd. 



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By the way, pray understand me — misconception's always hum- 
bling — 
('Tis of Italy I speak) : a Roman villa there had stood ; 
And with moss and vines half hidden, broken columns lay a- 
crumbling, 
Which I won't attempt to paint, as only Mr. Ruskin could. 

And, were I to try the beauties of the sky and sea and ocean 
To depict, our travelled critics would be quickly down on me ; 

All I want is to convey a golden, dreamy kind of notion 
Of a garden, in the sunset, by the Adriatic sea. 

Well — there sat two lovers, loving, neither gossipping nor moving, 
Ne'er a sigh or kiss exchanging, not a word did either say ; 

They were simply, I repeat it, sitting quietly and loving ; 
Which is quite an occupation, I can tell you, in its way. 

204 




^ 




They were young and good and happy---more description, where's 
the need of ? 
Is it necessary, even, to inform you they were fair ? 
Since that goodness, youth, and happiness, from all I see and 
read of, 
Are to Beauty, just as Oxygen and Nitrogen to Air. 

So I give you a carte blanche of their external forms and dresses. 
All the details to fill in ; you may indulge your tastes at ease 

In the choice of ladies' fashion, and in hue of eyes and tresses, 
And the gentleman may clothe in any coloured stuffs you please. 

Well, they sat there, never moving, only sitting still and loving, 
With their hands and souls united, and their faces looking calm ; 

Drinking bliss at each heart's pore — no thought of questioning or 
proving ! 
Do the lilies think of analyzing zephyrs pleasant balm .'' 

But, alas ! — (I'm but a Cockney ; you must pardon me some 
triteness 
In my images from Nature) — in its pride of dewy gem, 
Little recks the happy Lily, with its snowy, sancy whiteness, 
Of the brewing gust from northward, that will snap it from 
its stem ! 

So, alas ! with my two lovers, at their lazy, happy loving. 
With their hearts from doubt and trouble, as their sky from 
cloudlets, free ; 

With the hundred thousand influences round them sweetly moving. 
Of the garden, and the sunset, and the Adriatic Sea ! 

To the story ! — it's a short one : 'faith, a line or two would tell it, 
Yet a folio not exhaust it (there's a verse in Holy Writ 

That contains but two short words : in half a second you may 
spell it, 
Yet the mighty Volume's purport is concentred all in it). 

In the grass, among the flowers, plucking crocus cup and daisy, 
(Plants that probably in Italy were never known to smile ; 

I repeat that I'm a Cockney) — there he lounged, serenely lazy, 
Picking, throwing, nibbling, dreaming, dozing — loving all the 
while. 



Well ; one leant upon his elbow, and his hand went idly roving 
Through the tresses of the other — not in rapture or amaze 

At their beauty ; for the lovers who were sitting there and loving, 
Were as oie — and none but coxcombs will their own adorning 
praise. 

No I he twirled the tresses hither, and he tossed the tresses thither, 
As he would his own moustaches, and the maiden never moved ; 

Ne'er a freedom could she dream of. for the hand that trifled with her 
Was her own, for th^y were one — and so they trifled, sat, and 
loved ; 

And his other hand strayed idly o'er the herbage of the garden 
(By the way, 'twas once a wizard's, of the noxious herbal school ; 

I'm a greenhorn at narration, so I trust that you will pardon 
Any trifling deviation from severe constructive rule). 

Scarce within his reach of arm, he spied a plant of curious prickle ; 

It was tempting from its distance (still one hand about her 
head) — 
Could he reach it ? lo, a triumph ! it is plucked, its fibres tickle ; 

He must chew it — he has done so — in a moment he is Dead ! 

'Twas a poison !...(! admit it's unartistic, ill-worked up to ; 

It's abrupt, it's coarse, it's cruel, harsh — entitles me to groans ; 
But, I've told you, ne'er a neighbour would look in to chat and 
sup too ; 

So, if any one's to blame, I think you'll own it's Mr. Jones !) 

He was dead, and she was living ! Earth and sea, and sky, and 
ocean. 
All were changed — the light of life was gone, rekindled ne'er 
to be ; 
In the dark she stood alone; the sun had sunk with plummet 
motion ; 
Not a star shone o'er the blackness of the Adriatic Sea ! 

It was black, and cold, and sudden — she was hopeless, calm, and 
frigid ; 
Ne'er a moan escaped her bosom, on her brow was ne'er a frown ; 
She was broken, she was frozen, she was pulseless, she was rigid ; 
Can the Lily wave its petals when the north has blown it down ? 

206 




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There she stood beside the body — not a kiss and not a murmur : 
T/iej ivere one, and he was dead— beyond all human hopes and 
pains — 
He was dead ! - the better part of her — the vital one, the firmer, 
And the mortifying virus worked through heart, and soul, and 
veins. 

She was dying, and she waited. There, the neighbours came and 
found her. 
And they charged her with his murder ; how, with magic art 
and wile. 

She had poisoned her true lover ; as the worldlings clamoured 
round her, 
She but met them with the spectre of a dead but lovely smile. 

" Dearest friends," she said, " I love you, for you loved him and are 
wrathsome 
At his death, and thirst for many, in return for such a life ; 
And I love ye that ye'd slay me, with a death that's foul and 
loathsome ; 
As you think 'tis I have slain him— I ! who should ha\e been 
his wife ! 

" Best of friends— do not hate me bitterly, and tear me into pieces ; 
For you deem 'tis I have done it— nor give prayers up for my 
soul. 
How you loved him 1 he was worth it. What ! your honest fury 
ceases ? 
Such true hearts must not be tortured, I'll confess to you the 
whole.'' 

And she led them to the garden, whence they ruthlessly had torn 
her ; 
And the people, still unsatisfied, were murmuring with ire ; 
ut the spirit flame within yet burnt, that upward still had borne her. 
And the vulgar, 'neath it, cowered, as the Heathen worship fire. 

And she took them to the spot, where late with him she sat a-loving ; 
And she told them of that happy time (years back it seemed 
to be :) 
How they sat and loved, and idled, never thinking, never moving, 
In the garden, in the sunset, by the Adriatic Sea ! 

207 






And she showed them how her lover had sat toying with her tresses, 
And with one hand phicked a poisoned leaf (the other at her head). 

" Here's the plant ! " she said, and picked it ; " thus, its poison he 
expresses, 
Just as I do ;" and she chewed it. In a moment she was dead ! 



There's my story — do you like it ? from Boccaccio I've departed 
In the features ; but I've given you, at all events, the bones. 

It's a first attempt : if bullied, or but met with praise faint-hearted, 
Why, in future, I shall go to bed, or knock up Mrtjones. ^^ 



.V-' 





208 






This accomplished young poet was the son of a London archi- 
tect. He attained considerable success as an artist of the pre- 
Raphaelite school. Impatient for quicker success (an impatience 
which is the peculiar curse of our age), he started for Pernambuco, 
where he entered an engineer's office, and in a few years fell a 
victim to the climate. His verses are peculiarly sweet and musical ; 
and have an inner fervour and ^\ow like a good Burgundv. 



THE TOAST. 



She who hath the gentle soul, 
She who hath the winning way, 
She who dare not favour grant 
Lest a thousand hearts she slay- 
Tender, fair, and wise, and good. 
Choicest pearl of maidenhood ; 




She whose soft and lustrous hair. 
Bright as golden vapoured sky. 
Ever shines more richly fair 
With the crown of modesty ; 
She who hath the form of grace. 
She who hath the angel face ; 
209 



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She who hath a crowd of slaves, 
Deeming servitude a bliss — 
If her bondage be so sweet, 
Heaven ! what must be her kiss ! 
Well ye know her whom I mean, 
Drink to her, our love, our queen ! 

Drink ! 'tis all that we may do, 
Chivalry is gone and dead. 
Else in homage to her eyes 
Gladly we'd have fought and bled ; 
Days are gone for hearts to drain 
For lady's love on battle plain. 

But, behold ! the vine hath shed 
Purple drops to honour her, 
Best and choicest that he hath. 
As their perfume doth aver — 
He hath done far more than we, 
'Tis his heart's blood that ye see. 

What ! and will ye let her know 
How ye have been put to shame ? 
Shall she think your ardour slow, 
Your devotion dull and tame. 
And your boasted love outdone 
By this nursling of the sun .-' 

He who is a lover staunch. 
Quickly from his lady's eyes 
Let him with a jealous fear 
Hide the crimson sacriiice. 
Lest the grape shall seem to be 
Far more generous than he ; 
Hide it, let no ruby stain 
In the tell-tale glass remain ; 
Drink, until no drop be seen. 
Unto her, our love, our queen ! 



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MRS. E. B. BROWNING. 



1809- 



.^1/^ 



Mrs. Browning ranks as the Queen of our female poets. She 
alone of them has thrown vigorous thought on national events 
into passionate verse ; she alone has written a novel (almost a 
minor epic) in verse. Occasionally mannered, and daring in her 
mannerisms almost to affectation (coining phrases for her own 
intellectual coterie), her poetry is always true to nature, generous, 
and impassioned. 



fl 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 



Given to tite by W. S. Boyd, Author of "Select Passages /rom the Greek Fathers " Sr'c. 
to ivhom these stanzas are addressed. 



If old Bacchus were the speaker, 

He would tell you with a sigh 
Of the Cyprus in this beaker 

I am sipping like a fly, — 
Like a fly or gnat on Ida 

At the hour of goblet-pledge, 
By Queen Juno brushed aside, a 

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. 



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Sooth, the drinking should be ampler 

When the drink is so divine. 
And some deep-mouthed Greek exemplar 

Would become your Cyprus wine : 
Cyclops' mouth might plunge aright in, 

With his one eye over-leered, 
Nor too large were mouth of Titan 

Drinking rivers down his beard. 
211 



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Pan might dip his head so deep in 

That his ears alone pricked out, 
Fauns around him pressing, leaping, 

Each one pointing to his throat : 
While the Naiads, like Bacchantes, 

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, 
Cry " O earth, that thou wouldst grant us 

Springs to keep, of such a taste!" 

But for me, I am not worthy 

After gods and Greeks to drink, 
And my lips are pale and earthy 

To go bathing from this brink : 
Since you heard them speak the last time 

They have faded from their Ijlooms, 
And the laughter of my pastime 

Has learnt silence at the tombs. 

Ah, my friend ! the anticjue drinkers 

Crowned the cup and crowned the brow 
Can I answer the old thinkers 

In the forms they thought of, now? 
Who will fetch fi'om garden-closes 

Some new garlands while I speak. 
That the forehead crowned with roses 

May strike scarlet down the check ? 

Do not mock me ! with my mortal 

Suits no wreath again, indeed ; 
I am sad-voiced as the turtle 

Which Anacreon used to feed : 
Yet as that same bird demurely 

Wet her beak in cup of his. 
So without a garland surely 

I may touch the brim of this. 




Go, — let others praise the Chian ! 

This is soft as Muses' string, 
This is tawny as Rhea's lion. 

This is rapid as his spring, 
212 






liright as Paphia's eyes ere met us, 
Light as ever trod her feet ; 

And the brown bees of Hymettus 
Make their honey not so sweet. 

Very copious are my praises, 

Though I sip it like a fly ! 
Ah — but, sipping, — times' and places 

Change before me suddenly : 
As Ulysses' old libation 

Drew the ghosts from every part, 
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, 

Stirs the Hades of my heart. 

And I think of those long mornings 

Which my thought goes far to seek, 
When betwixt the folio's turnings 

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek : 
Past the pane the mountain spreading, 

Swept the sheep's-bells tinkling noise. 
While a girlish voice was reading, 

Somewhat low for an and ois. 

Then, what golden hours were for us ! 

While we sat together there. 
How the white vests of the chorus 

Seemed to wave up a live air ! 
How the cothurns trod majestic 

Down the deep iambic lines, 
And the rolling anapaestic 

Curled like vapour over shrines ! 



Oh ! our yEschylus, the thunderous. 

How he drove the bolted breath 
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous 

In the gnarled oak beneath ! 
Oh ! our Sophocles, the royal. 

Who was born to monarch's place. 
And who made the whole world loyal, 

Less by kingl)- power than grace ! 
213 





Our Euripides, the human, 

With his droppings of warm tears, 
And his touches of things common 

Till they rose to touch the spheres ! 
Our Theocritus, our Bion, 

And our Pindar's shining goals ! — 
These were cup-bearers undying 

Of the wine that 's meant for souls. 

And my Plato, the divine one, 

If men know the gods aright, 
By their motions as they shine on 

With a glorious trail of light ! 
And your noble Christian bishops 

Who mouthed grandly the last Greek ! 
Though the sponges on their hyssops 

Were distent with wine — too weak. 



Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him 

As a liberal mouth of gold ; 
And your Basil, you upraised him 

To the height of speakers old : 
And we both praised Heliodorus 

For his secret of pure lies,— - 
Who forged first his linked stories 

In the heat of ladies' eyes. 



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And we both praised your Synesius 

For the fire shot up in his odes. 
Though the Church was scarce propitious 

As he whistled dogs and gods. 
And we both praised Nazianzen 

For the fervid heart and speech : 
Only I eschewed his glancing 

At the lyre hung out of reach. 



Do you mind that deed of Ate 

Which you bound me to so fast, — 

Reading ' De Virginitate ' 

From the first hne to the last.-* 
214 



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How I said at ending, solemn 
As I turned and looked at you, 

That Saint Simeon on the column 
Had had somewhat less to do ? 



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For we sometimes gently wrangled, — 

Very gently, be it said, 
Since our thoughts vvere disentangled 

By no breaking of the thread ! 
And I charged you with extortions 

On the nobler fames of old — 
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons 

Stained the purple they would fold. 



For the rest — a mystic moaning 

Kept Cassandra at the gate, 
With wild eyes the vision shone in, 

And wide nostrils scenting Fate. 
And Prometheus, bound in passion 

By brute Force to the blind stone, 
Showed us looks of invocation 

Turned to ocean and the sun. 




And Medea we saw burning 

At her nature's planted stake : 
And proud Qidipus fate-scorning 

While the cloud came on to break- 
While the cloud came on slow, slower, 

Till he stood discrowned, resigned !- 
But the reader's voice dropped lower 

When the poet called him BLIND. 

Ah, my gossip ! you were older, 

And more learned, and a man ! 
Yet that shadow, the enfolder 
Of your quiet eyelids, ran 
Both our spirits to one level ; 

And I turned from hill and lea 
And the summer sun's green revel, 
To your eyes that could not see. 
215 





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Now Christ bless you with the one hght 

Which goes shining night and day ! 
May the flowers which grow in sunhght 

Shed their fragrance in your way ! 
Is it not right to remember 

All your kindness, friend of mine, 
When we two sat in the chamber, 

And the poets poured us wine? 

So, to come back to the drinking 

Of this Cyprus, — it is well, 
But those memories, to my thinking, 

Make a better a;nomcl ; 
And whoever be the speaker, 

None can murmur with a sigh 
That, in drinking from that beaker, 

I am sipping like a fly. 






216 






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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

1811— 1863. 

Mr. Thackeray had seen much of hfe, and had tasted deeply 
of its bitterness. "He that has not watered his daily bread with 
his tears, how can he hope to touch the heart ? " says Gothe, 
that great German with whom the author of " Vanity Fair " had 
once conversed. Cheated out of large sums of money ; then a 
poor artist in Paris ; for a long time a struggling and compara- 
tively unknown writer, Thackeray had, note by note, passed 
through the whole gamut of fortune. At first cynical and em- 
bittered, cramped and chilled by the frost of hard times, this great 
writer mellowed and expanded in the sunshine of his later years, 
and though always rather ruthless against the female character, 
savage with social humbugs, and especially hostile to Irishmen, 
he began latterly to take delight in painting such amiable and 
simple berated men as Colonel Newcombe ; his genius grew more 
Addisonian as it ripened, but to the last he was never very suc- 
cessful in uniting in his characters intellect with virtue. As an 
artist on wood his work to the last remained that of the clever 
amateur. There is a delightful flavour about his verse (the little 
that he wrote) that makes one value it like the essence of some 
liqueur, for sips, not for good draughts. Take the " Bouilla- 
baisse," for instance, what a quiet delightful day dream it is of old 
times and old friends. 



WJ 



•o^: 






THE BALLAD 



BOUILLABAISSE. 



A street there is in Paris famous 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case, 
The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terra's tavern 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 



I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terr^ still alive and able .-' 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smile before your table, 

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older. 

'■ How's Monsieur Terre, Waiter, pray ? " 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner, 

So honest Terre 's run his race." 
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 

"Oil, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 

"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " 
" Tell me a good one" — " That I can. Sir, 

The Chambcrtin with yellow seal." 
218 




^ 



^ 




" So Terra's gone," I say, and sink in 
My old accustomed corner-place ; 

" He's done with feasting and with drinking 
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cm'i luoghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled grim old fogy 

1 sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 



Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine } 
Come, Waiter, quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 




A 



There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Loi'd ! the world has wagged apace 
Since here we set the claret flowing. 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me— • 

There's no one now to share my cup. 
219 



9! %. 



^Q^r 



*/^ 





I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, till it, and have done with rhymes 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 



In the "Age of Wisdom,'' the poet gives youth one of his cynical 
lessons with a profound experience of the vanity of human pleasures. 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 



.€<*> 



Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin 

That never has known the barber's shear, 
All your wish is woman to win, 
This is the way that boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year I 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer, 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains 
Under Bonnybcll's window panes, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year. 



Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass. 

Once you have come to Forty Year I 
^r -jf * * * * * 



The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper, and we not list. 
Or look away, and never be missed, 
Ere yet even a month is gone. 

320 






rO^ 



Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, 

How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
Marian's married, but I sit here 
Alone and merry at Forty Year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 



The "Mahogany Tree" is a wild Christmas song, full ot good 
fellowship, and yet the mirth is thoughtful. The present Christmas 
reminds the poet of past Christmases ; beyond the bright lights 
there is a gloom. 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 

Christmas is here ; 
Winds whistle shrill. 
Icy and chill, 
Little care we : 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Sheltered about 

The Mahogany Tree. 



Once on the boughs, 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 
Night-birds are we ; 
Here we carouse, 
Singing, like them. 
Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 



Here let us sport, 
Boys, as we sit ; 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 
Life is but short — 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on 
Round the old tree. 

221 



•^is^ 




IZ 




Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts and true, 
Gentle and just. 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sinsf round the tree. 



Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate : 
Let the dog wait : 
Happy we'll be ! 
Drink every one ; 
Pile up the coals, 
Fill the red bowls, 
Round the old ti'ee ! 



M 



a 



In the " Cane Bottomed Chair," Thackeray sketches with tender 
regret the old bitter-sweet Bohemian life. 



THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. 

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars. 
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars. 
Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 



This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks 

With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books. 

And foolish old odds, and foolish old ends, 

Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. 

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked) ; 

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; 

A twopenny treasury, worthless to see ; 

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 



^i 








.4fc*^ 



That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; 
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

Long, long through the hours and the night and the chimes 
Here we talk of old books and old friends and old times ; 
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest. 
There's one that I love and I cherish the best ; 
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair 
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair. 

'Tis a bandylegged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat. 
With a creaking old back and twisted old feet ; 
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there 
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair. 
«• * * # 

It was but a moment she sat in this place, 

She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face, 

A smile on her face and a rose in her hair, 

And she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. 

And so I have valued my chair ever since 

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; 

Saint Fanny my patroness sweet I declare, 

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. 

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, 
In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair— 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. 

She comes from the past and revisits my room ; 
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; 
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair. 
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair. 



223 




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ALARIC ALEXANDER WATTS. 

1799 — 1864. 

Among the sentimental poets, Mr. Watts stands high, but the 
school is by no means a perfect one. Assumed melancholy and 
feigned Byronic emotions are as bad as the strained metaphors 
and hysterical fury of our spasmodic poets of a few years ago. 
In the " Keepsakes," which Mr. Watts originated, much of his 
graceful and always musical verse appears. 



TEN YEARS AGO. 

Ten years ago, ten years ago, 

Life was to us a fairy scene, 
And the keen blasts of worldly woe 

Had seared not then its pathway green. 
Youth and its thousand dreams were ours, 

Feelings we ne'er can know again; 
Unwithered hopes, unwasted powers, 

And frames unworn by mortal pain : 
■Such was the bright and genial flow 
'Of life with us — ten years ago ! 
224 





^ 



Time has not blanched a single hair 

That clusters round thy forehead now ; 
Nor hath the cankering touch of care 

Left e'en one furrow on thy brow. 
Thine eyes are bhie as when we met, 

In -love's deep truth, in earher years ; 
Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet, 

Though sometimes stained by secret tears • 
But where, oh I where's the spirit's glow 
That shone through all— ten years ago? 

1, too, am changed- 1 scarce know why- 

Can feel each flagging pulse decay ; ' 
And youth and health and visions high 

Alelt like a wreath of snow away ;'' 
Time cannot sure have wrought the ill ; 

Though worn in this world's sickening strife 
in soul and form, I linger still 

In the first summer month of life ; 
^'et journey on my path below, 
Oh ! how unlike ten years ago ! 

But look not thus : I would not give 

The wreck of hopes that thou must share, 
To bid those joyous hours revive 

When all around me seemed so fair. 
We've wandered on in sunny weather 

When Minds were low and flowers in bloom 
And hand in hand have kept together 

And still will keep, 'mid storm and 'gloom • 
Lndeared by ties we could not know 
^Vhen life was joung— ten years ago .' 

Has fortune frowned ? Her frowns uere \ain 

For hearts like ours she could not chill • 
Have friends proved false.? Their love might wane 

but ours grew fonder, firmer still. 
Twin barks on this world's changing ^ave, 

Stedfast in calms, in tempests tried ; 
In concert still our fate we'll brave, 

Together cleave life's fitful tide ; 
Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow. 
Youth's first wild dreams- ten years ago ' 



>. 



}E{i 




^^is 



Have wc not knelt beside his bed, 

And watched our first-born blossom die? 
Hoped till the shade of hope had fled, 

Then wept till feeling's fount was dry? 
Was it not sweet in that dark hour 

To think, 'mid mutual tears and sighs, 
Our bud had left its earthly bower,* 

And burst to bloom in Paradise ? 
What to the thought that soothed that woe 
Were heartless joys— ten years ago ? 

Yes, it is sweet, when heaven is bright. 

To share its sunny beams with thee ; 
But sweeter far, 'mid clouds and blight, 

To have thee near to weep with me. 
Then dry those tears- though something changed 

From what we were in earlier youth, 
Time that hath hopes and friends estranged 

Hath left us love in all its truth ; 
Sweet feelings we would not forego 
For life's best joys— ten years ago. 



<:A 



* Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade. 
Death came with friendly care, 
The opening bud to Heaven conveyed. 
And bade it blossom there. 

Coleridge, 



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S / 



Vt- 



.Wy\. 





2^ ^ 



A 



This accomplished young lady, the daughter of the poet Barry 
Cornwall, died of consumption in the very May time of her 
genius. A presentiment of early death pervades all her verse ; 
her songs are as tender and as sad as those of the nightingale, and, 
like them, they seem fittest for the meditative twilight. 



MY PICTURE GALLERY. 

You write and think of me, my friend, with pity, 
While you are basking in the light of Rome, 

Shut up within the heart of this great city. 
Too busy and too poor to leave my home. 

You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure. 
Chained all day to my ledger and my pen ; 

Too sickly e'en to use my little leisure 

To bear me from the strife and din of men. 

Well, it is true ; yet, now the days are longer, 
At sunset I can lay my writing down, 

And slowly crawl (summer has made me stronger) 
Just to the nearest outskirt of the town. 

There a wide common, blackened though and dreary 
With factory smoke, spreads outward to the west ; 

I lie down on the parched-up grass, if weary, 
Or lean against a broken wall to rest. 

-So might a king, turning to Art's rich treasure. 
At evening when the cares of state were done. 

Enter his royal gallery, drinking pleasure 

Slowly from each great picture, one by one. 
227 





■i 




Towards the west I turn my weary spirit, 

And watch my pictures : one each night is mine. 

Earth and my soul, sick of day's toil, inherit 
A portion of that luminous peace divine. 

There I have seen a sunset's crimson glory 

Burn as if earth were one great altar's blaze ; 

Or, like the closing of a piteous story, 

Light up the misty world with dying rays. 

There I have seen the clouds in pomp and splendour 
Their gold and purple banners all unfurl ; 

There I have watched colours far more faint and tender 
Than pure and delicate tints upon a pearl. 

Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly, 

While one star trembling watched the daylight die ; 

Or deep in gloom a sunset, hidden wholly 

Save through gold rents torn in a violet sky. 

Or parted clouds, as if asunder riven 

By some great angel — and beyond a space 

Of far-off tranquil light ; the gates of Heaven 
Will lead as grandly to as calm a place. 

Or stern dark walls of cloudy mountain ranges 
Hid all the wonders that we knew must be ; 

While far on high some little white clouds' changes 
Revealed the glory they alone could see. 

Or in wild wrath th' affrighted clouds lay shattered, 

Like treasures of the lost Hesperides, 
All in a wealth of ruined splendour scattered, 

Save one strange light on distant silver seas. 

What land or time can claim the master painter 

Whose art could teach him half such gorgeous dyes 

Or skill so rare, but purer hues and fainter 
Melt every evening in my western skies ? 
228 





So there I wait until the shade has lengthened, 
And night's blue misty curtain floated down ; 

Then, with my heart calmed and my spirits strengthened, 
1 crawl once more back to the sultry town. 

What monarch, then, has nobler recreations 

Than mine? Or where the great and classic land 

Whose wealth of Art delights the gathered nations, 
That owns a Picture Gallery half as grand ? 






r^ 



^1 





\^- 



When Landor was at Rugby, potent at loot-ball, and dominating 
at cricket, stalwart, proud, and wilful, a farmer one day caught him 
dragging his pond. The boy, instead of falling on his knees, threw 
his net over the angry farmer, and, in the way of the old gladiators, 
reduced him to surrender at discretion. That story is a key to 
Landor's life. Landor's shorter poems are beautiful, rounded, and 
complete as oriental pearls. They are, in fact, cameos, exquisitely 
cut, clear, and sharp of outline. A strong defiant individuality 
pervades them. 



ON RECEIVING A MONTHLY ROSE. 



Passtum ! thy roses long ago, 

All roses far above, 
Twice in the year were culled to blow 

And braid the locks of Love. 

He saw the city sink in dust, 

Its roses' roots decayed. 
And cried in sorrow, " Find 1 must 

Another for my braid." 




1/ 



^Y-i 





First Cyprus, then the Syrian shore, 

To Pharpar's lucid rill, 
Did those two large dark eyes explore, 

But wanted something still. 

Damascus tilled his heart with joy. 

So sweet her roses were ! 
He culled them ; but the wayward boy 

Thought them ill worth his care. 

'' 1 want then: every month,'" he cried, 

'' I want them every hour : 
Perennial rose, and none beside, 

Henceforth shall be mv flower." 



TO JOHN FOSTER. 

Foster ! whose zeal has seized each written page, 
That fell from me, and over many lands 
Hath cleared for me a broad and solid way. 
Whence one more age, ay, haply more than one, 
May be arrived at (all through thee), accept 
No false or faint or perishable thanks. 
From better men, and greater, friendship turned 
Thy willing steps to me. From Eliot's cell 
Death-dark ; from Hampden's sadder battle-field ; 
From stedfast Cromwell's tribunition throne, 
Loftier than king's supported knees could mount ; 
Hast thou departed with me, and hast climbed 
Cecropian heights, and ploughed ^gean waves. 
Therefore it never grieved me when I saw 
That she who guards those regions and those seas 
Hath look't with eyes more gracious upon thee. 
There are no few like that conspirator 
Who, under pretext of power-worship, fell 
At Caesar's feet, only to hold him down 
While others stabbed him with repeated blows : 
And there are more who fling light jibes, immerst 
In gutter-filth, against the car that mounts 
231 



\i 



^^ 







Weighty with triumph up the Sacred Way. 

Protect in every place my stranger guests, 

Born in the Uicid land of free pure song, 

Now first appearing on repulsive shores, 

Bleak, and where safely none but natives move. 

Red-polled, red-handed, siller-grasping men. 

Ah ! lead them far away, for they are used 

To genial climes and gentle speech ; but most 

Cymodameia; warn the Tritons off 

While she ascends, while through the opening plain 

Of the green sea (brightened by bearing it 

Gushes redundantly her golden hair. 



SIXTEEN. 

In Clementina's artless mien 

Lucilla asks me what I see. 
And are the roses of sixteen 
Enough for me 

Lucilla asks if that be all, 

Have I not culled as sweet before? 
Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall 
I still deplore. 



I now behold another scene. 

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, 
More pure, more constant, more serene, 
And not less bright. 

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, 

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, 
And Modesty, who, when she goes, 
Is g-one for ever. 






FRANCIS MAHONY, ESQ 




FATHER PROUT 



What a singular transformation — a Jesuit priest turning news- 
paper correspondent and magazine writer ! No one has para- 
phrased Horace more exquisitely than Father Prout, and of all his 
paraphrases, there is not one more exquisite and more close to 
the original (a merit sometimes overlooked in clever translations) 
than the following : — 



ODE IX. 

See how the winter blanches 

Soracte's giant brow ! 
Hear how the forest branches 

Groan for the weight of snow I 
While the fix'd ice impanels 
Rivers within their channels. 



>S 



Out with the frost ! expel her 
Pile up the fuel block, 

And from thy hoary cellar 
Produce a Sabine crock ; 

O Thaliarck ! remember 

It counts a fourth December. 



V^ 



Give to the gods the guidance 
Of earth's arrangements. — List ! 

The blasts at their high biddance 
From the vex'd deep desist. 

Nor 'mid the cypress riot ; 

And the old elms are quiet. 
233 








The chef iT a' 1 17' re of Father Prout, however, is that reminiscence 
of his native city which he entitled 

" The Bei.ls of Shandon." 

Of all the poems on bells ever written we prefer this. Even Edgar 
Poe's wonderful poem (though about that there is the subtlety and 
passion of insanity) is not so thoughtful nor so true. 

THE SHANDON BELLS. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would 
In the days of childhood 
Fling round iny cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder 

Sweet Cork, of thee. 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on, 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming, 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would \ibrate, 
But all their music 

Spoke nought like thine. 
For memory dwelling 
On each proud swelling, 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon, 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 
234 







I've heard bells toll in 
Old "Adrian's Mole" in 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame. 
But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber 

Pealing solemnly ; — 
O ! the bells of Shandon, 
Sound far more grand on, 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



With his deep scholarship, wonderful versatility as a lincruis 
and profound knowledge of ecclesiastical learning in its "least 
known branches. Father Prout combined all the ardour and 
sparkle of an Irish genius. His rhymes are as audacious as 
they are mgenious-he tried " each mode of the lyre and was 
master of all." How admirable is this eccentric jingle on a hamlet 
near Cork. 

The town of Passage 

Is both large and spacious. 

And situated 

Upon the say. 
'Tis nate and dacent, 
And quite adjacent 
To come from Cork 

On a summer's day ; 
There you may slip in 
To take a dipping. 
Foment the shipping 

That at anchor ride ; 
Or in a wherry. 
Cross o'er the ferry, 
To Carrigaloe 

On the other side, 
235 




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o_ 



3 





Mud cabins swarm in 
This place so charming. 
With sailors' garments, 

Hmig out to dry. 
And each abode is 
Snug and commodious 
With pigs melodious 

In their straw-built sty. 
'Tis there the turf is, 
And lots of murphies, 
Dead sprats and herrings 

And oyster shells ; 
Nor any lack O 
Of good tobacco, 
Though what is smuggled 

By far excels. 



There are ships from Cadiz 
And from Barbadoes, 
But the leading trade is 

In whisky-punch. 
* -;|; * 

Of ships — there's one fixt 
For lodging convicts 
A floating " stone-jug " 

Of amazing bulk ; 
The hake and salmon 
Playing at backgammon 
Swim for diversion 

All round this " hulk ; " 
There Saxon jailors 
Keep brave Repailers 
Who soon with sailors 

Must anchor weigh 
From th' Emerald Island, 
Ne'er to see dry land 
Until they spy land 

In sweet Bot'ny Bay. 



Z36 





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^ 



LIVING AUTHORS. 







^.A^^.^^ 






!^ 



f^ 




^(^ 



WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



THE LOVER AND BIRDS. 

Within a budding grove, 
In April's ear sang every bird his best, 
But not a song to pleasure my unrest, 
Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love. 
Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest. 
To every word 
Of every bird 
I listened, and replied as it behove. 

Screamed Chaffinch, " Sweet, sweet, sweet ! 
O bring my pretty love to meet me here!" 
" Chaffinch," quoth I, " be dumb awhile, in fear 
Thy darling prove no better than a cheat ; 
And never come, or fly when wintry days appear." 
Yet from a twig 
With voice so big 
The little fowl his utterance did repeat. 







Then I, ''The man forlorn 
Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft." 
"And what'll he do? what'U he do!" scoffed 
The Blackbird, standing in an ancient thorn ; 
Then spread his sooty wings, and flitted to the croft 
With cackling laugh : 
Whom I, being half 
Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn. 

Worse mocked the Thrush, " Die ! die ! 

could he do it ! could he do it ? Nay ! 
Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!" (went his lay) 
"Take heed! take heed!" then, "Why? why? why? why? why? 

Sec-oe now ! see-ee now ! (he drawled) Back ! back ! back ! 
R-r-r-run away ! " 

" O Thrush, be still ! 
Or, at thy will. 
Seek some less sad interpreter than I I " 

" Air, air ! blue air and white ! 
Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I floe ! " 
(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea) 
" Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright, 
Wiiither I see, whither I see ! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I 
see, see. see ! " 

" Gay Lark," I said, 
" The song that's bred 
In happy nest may well to heaven make flight." 

" There's something, something sad, 

1 half remember" — piped a broken strain. 
Well sung, sweet Robin ! Robin sung again, 
" Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily ! be we glad ! " 

Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad. 
Till now, grown meek, 
With wetted cheek, 
Most comfortintr and gentle thoughts i had. 



240 










PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 



SONG, FROM '^ P^ESTUS." 

Oh ! the wee green neuk, the sly green neuk, 

The wee sly neuk for me ! 
Whare the wheat is wavin' bright and brown, 

And the wind is fresh and free. 
Whare I weave wild weeds, and out o' reeds 

Kerve whissles as I lay ; 
And a douce low voice is murmurin' by 

Through the lee-lang simmer day. 

Oh ! the wee green neuk, &c. 

And whare a' things luik as though they lo'ed 

To languish in the sun ; 
And that, if they feed the fire they dree, 

They wadna ae pang were gone. 
Whare the lift aboon is still as death. 

And bright as life can be ; 
While the douce low voice says, Na, na, na I 

But ye mauna luik sae at me. 

Oh ! the wee green neuk, Sec. 

Whare the lang rank bent is saft and culc. 

And freshenin' till the feet ; 
And the spot is sly, and the spinnie high, 

Whare my luve and I mak' seat : 
And I tease her till she rins, and then 

I catch her roun' the tree ; 
While the poppies shak' their heids and blush 

Let 'em blush till they drap for me! 
Oh I the wee green neuk, &c. 
241 



<J i \> 



I I 



HENRY S. LEIGH. 





THE SEE-SAW. 

Sickness and health have been having a game with me, 

Tossing me, just hke a ball, to and fro. 
Pleasure and pain have been doing the same with me, 

Treating me simply like something to throw. 
Joy took me up to the clouds for a holiday. 

In a balloon that she happens to keep ; 
Then, as a damp upon rather a jolly day. 

Grief in her diving-bell took me down deep. 

Poverty came pretty early — bad luck to her I — 

Truly she makes an affectionate wife. 
I, like a fool, have been faithful, and stuck to her ; 

She'll stick to me for the rest of my life. 
As for our children (I wish we had drowned them all) — 

Those I regard as the worst of my ills. 
How can you wonder to hear me confoinid them all, 

Seeing that most of those children are Bills? 



Hope, who was once an occasional visitor. 

Never looks in on us now for a chat. 
Memory comes, though — the cruel inquisitor ! 

(Not that I feel much the better for that I 
Hope was a liar, there's no use denying it : 

Memory's tales are decidedly true ; 
Yet I confess that I like, after trying it, 

Hope's conversation the best of the two. 





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'■^ 



VA 



Barley-mowers here we stand, 
One, two, three, a steady band ; 
True of heart and strong of Ihnb, 
Ready in our harvest-trim ; 
All a-row, with spirits blithe, 
Now we whet the bended scythe. 

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink ! 

Side by side now, bending low, 

Down the swaths of barley go ; 

Stroke by stroke, as true as chime 

Of the bells we keep in time : 

Then we whet the ringing scythe, 

Standing 'mid the barley lithe. 

♦ Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink ! 

After labour cometh ease ; 
Sitting now beneath the trees. 
Round we send the barley-wine, 
Life-infusing, clear and fine ; 
Then refreshed, alert and blithe, 
Rise we all, and whet the scythe. 

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink ! 

Barley-mowers must be true. 
Keeping still the end in view ; 
One with all, and all with one, 
Working on till set of sun ; 
Bending all with spirits blithe, 
Whetting all at once the scythe. 

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink I 
243 




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Day and night, and niglit and day. 
Time, the mower, will not stay : 
We may hear him in our path 
By the falling barley-swath ; 
While we sing with spirits blithe, 
We may hear his ringing scythe — 

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink ! 

Time, the mower, cuts down all. 
High and low, and great and small : 
Fear him not, for we will grow 
Ready like the field we mow ; 
Like the bending barley lithe, 
Ready for Time's whetted scythe. 

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink .' 




244 






I could loose my boat, 
And could bid it float 

Where the idlest wind should pilot, 
So its glad course lay 
From this earth away, 

Toward any untrodden islet. 

For this earth is old, 

And its heart is cold, 
And the palsy of age has bound it ; 

iVnd my spirit frets 

For the viewless nets 
Which are hourly clinging round it. 

And with joyful glee 
We have heard of thee, 

Thou Isle in mid-ocean sleeping ; 
And thy records old, 
Which the Sage has told 

How the Memphian tornbs are keeping. 
245 






But we know not where, 

'Neath the desert air, 
To look for the pleasant places 

Of the youth of Time, 

Whose austerer prime 
The haunts of his childhood effaces. 

Like the golden flowers 

Of the western bowers, 
Have waned their immortal shadows ; 

And no harp may tell 

Where the asphodel 
Clad in light those Elysian meadows. 

And thou, fairest Isle 

In the daylight's smile, 
Hast thou sunk in the boiling ocean. 

While beyond thy strand 

Rose a mightier land 
From the wave in alternate motion ? 

Are the isles that stud 

The Atlantic flood 
But the peaks of thy tallest mountains. 

While repose below 

The great waters' flow 
Thy towns and thy towers and fountains? 



.Q>^ 



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i> 



EDMUND F. BLANCHARD 



WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? 

If all that you adore, — 

You confess — 
Fairest hair, little lips. 

Finger-tips. 
Nose, chin, and large slow eyes 

That surprise 
Quick dimples when Love seeks 

Them in cheeks. 
All — all — from neck to feet. 

All complete : 
If all that you adore, 

You confess, — 
Fade ! would you love me more ? 

Love me less ? 

Or — say — your heart retains 

All the pains — 
The proud pains of Love's faith. 

Would the death 
Of beauty only be 

Felt for me ? 
For me alone. For you 

What keeps true 
Contenting. Still draw bliss 

From my kiss ? 
Or must I not retain 

Too much faith, 
Less Love you'd but regain 

After Death? 









ELIZA COOK. 



OUR NATIVE SONG. 

Our native song, — our native song ! 

Oh ! where is he who loves it not ? 
The spell it holds is deep and strong, 

Where'er we go, whate'er our lot. 
Let other music greet our ear 

With thrilling fire or dulcet tone ; 
We speak to praise, we pause to hear, 

But yet — oh, yet — 'tis not our own ! 
The anthem chant, the ballad wild. 

The notes that we remember long — 
The theme we sung with lisping tongue — 

'Tis this we love — our native song ! 

The one who bears the felon's brand 

With moody brow and darkened name. 
Thrust meanly from his father-land, 

To languish out a life of shame ; 
Oh ! let him hear some simple strain — 

Some lay his mother taught her boy — 
He'll feel the charm, and dream again 

Of home, of innocence, and joy ! 
The sigh will burst, the drops will start. 

And all of virtue buried long— 
The best, the purest in his heart, — 

Is wakened by his native song. 

Self-exiled from our place of birth, 

To climes more fragrant, bright, and gay 

The memory of our own fair earth 
May chance awhile to fade away : 
248 






IIOMK, SWKK 1 lldMK, 




But should some minstrel-echo fall 

Of chords that breathe Old England's fame, 
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn, 

True to the land we love and claim. 
The high — the low — in weal or woe, 

Be sure there's something coldly wrong 
About the heart that does not glow 

To hear its own, its native song. 




^-a- 




i&,^^^3^<^^^ 



ALGERNON CHARLIES SWINBURNE 





CHORUS IN "ATALANTA IN CALYDON 

Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, with a glass that ran ; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 

Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
Remembrance fallen from heaven. 

And madness risen from hell ; 
Strength without hands to smite ; 

Love that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light, 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears. 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of the years ; 
And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of the labouring earth ; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter, 
And fashioned with loathing and love, 
With life before and after, 

And death beneath and above ; 



For a day and a night and a morrow. 

That his strength might endure for a span 

With tranquil and heavy sorrow. 
The holy spirit of man. 
250 










From the winds of the north and the south 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his mouth, 

They filled his body with life ; 
Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein, 
A time for labour and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 
They gave him light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight. 
And beauty, and length of days. 

And night, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 









H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL. 



DERBY DAY. 

"Oh! who will over the Downs with me?" 

Over Epsom Downs, and away — 
The sun has got a tear in his eye, 
And the morning mists are light and high ; — 
We shall have a splendid day. 



And splendid it is, by all that's hot! — 

A regular blaze on the hill ; 
And the turf rebounds from the light-shod heel 
And the tapering spokes of the delicate wheel 
With a springy-velvety sort of a feel 

That fairly invites " a spill." 

Splendid it is, but we musn't stop. 
The folks are beginning to run,— 

Is yonder a cloud that covers the course? 

No, it 's fifty thousand — man and horse — 
Come out to see the fun. 



So — ^just in time for the trial spurt ; 

The jocks are cantering in, — 
We shall have the leaders round in a crack. 
And a hundred voices are shouting "back," 
But nobody stirs a pin ! 
There isn't a soul will budge 
So much as an inch from his place, 
Tho' the hue of the master's scarlet coat 
Is a joke compared to his face. 
252 




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•'To the ropes! to the ropes!" Now stick to your hold ; 
A breezy flutter of crimson and gold, 
And the crowd are swept aside, 
You can see the caps as they fall and rise 
Like a swarm of variegated flies 
Coming glittering up the ride ; 

" To the ropes, for your life ! Here they come-there they go " 
1 he exquisite graceful things ' 
In the very sport of their strength and pride • 
Ha ! that's the Favourite,-look at his stride 
It suggests the idea of wings : 
And the glossy neck is arched tnd firm 

In spite of the flying pace ; 
The jockey sticks to his back like ^\xxq 
And his hand is quick and his eye'is true 
And whatever skill and pluck can do 

They will do to win the race. 
The colt with the bright broad chest. 

Will run to win the day ; 
There 's fame and fortune in eveiy bound 
And a hundred and fifty thousand pound' 
Staked on the gallant Bav ! 



" Thefre off!'' .... 

And away at the \-ery first start, 

" Hats down ! hats down in front ' 

Hats down, you sir in the wide-awake'" 

The tightened barriers quiver and shake. 

But they bravely bear the brunt. 

A hush like death is over the crowd ; 

D'you hear that distant cry .? 
Then hark how it gathers, far and near 
One rolling, ringing, rattling cheer, 
As the race goes dashing by 
And away with the hats and the caps in the air 
And the horses seem to flv . ' 

Forward ! forward ! at railway speed ' 
There's one that has fairly taken the lead 
In a style that can scarce miscarry; 





Over and on, like a flash of light, 
And now his colours are coming in sight, 
Favourite ! Favourite !— scarlet and white — ■ 
He'll win, by the Lord Harry ! ! 

If he can but clear the corner, I say, 

The Derby is lost and won : 
It's an awful shave, but he'll do the trick, 
Now! Now or never — he's passing it c|uick. — 
He's roiind ! .... 

No, he isn't ; he's broken his neck, 
And the jockey his collar bone : 
And the whirlwind race is over his head. 
Without stopping to ask if he's living or dead, — 

Was there ever such rudeness known ? 
He fell like a trump in the foremost place — 
He died with the rushing wind on his face — 
At the wildest bound of his glorious pace — 

In the mad exulting revel ; 
He left his shoes to his son and heir, 
His hocks to a champagne dealer at Ware, 
A lock of his hair 
To the Lady-Mare, 
And his hoofs and his tail — to the '"" '" "" * " ! 



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LORD HOUGHTON. 

MONCKTON MILNES.) 

I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 

I wandered by the brook-side, 

I wandered by the mill, — 
I could not hear the brook flow. 

The noisy wheel was still ; 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird, 
But the beating of my own heart 

\\^as all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the ehn-tree, 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word, — 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not, — no, he came not, — 

The night came on alone, — 
The little stars sat, one by one, 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening air passed by my cheek. 

The leaves above were stirred, — 
But the beating of my own hearc 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind, — 
A hand was on my shoulder, 

I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer — nearer, — 

We did not speak one word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound we heard. 
^55 




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ALEXANDER SMITH. 



A BALLAD FROM THE "LIFE DRAMA." 



In winter, when the dismal rain 

Came down in slanting lines. 
And wind, that grand old harper, smote 

His thunder harp of pines, 

A Poet sat in his antique room. 

His lamp the valley kinged, 
'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he found 

Truth, fresh and golden-winged. 

When violets came, and woods were green, 

And larks did skyward dart, 
A Love alit, and white did sit 

Like an angel on his heart. 

From his heart he unclasped his love 

Amid the trembling trees. 
And sent it to the Lady Blanche 

On winged poesies. 

The Lady Blanche was saintly fair, 
Nor proud, but meek her look ; 

In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clear 
As pebbles in a brook. 

Her father's veins ran noble blood, 

Her hall rose 'mid the trees ; 
Like a sunbeam she came and went 

'Mong the white cottages. 
256 









The peasants thanked her with their tears, 
When food and clothes were given, — 

" This is a joy," the Lady said, 
" Saints cannot taste in Heaven 1 ' 



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They met, — the Poet told his love, 
His hopes, despairs, his pains, — 

The Lady with her calm eyes marked 
The tumult in his veins. 

He passed away — a tierce song leapt 
From cloud of his despair, 

As lightning, like a bright wild beast, 
Leaps from its thunder lair. 

He poured his frenzy forth in song, — 
Bright heir of tears and praises ! 

Mow resteth that unquiet heart 
Beneath the quiet daisies. 

The world is old, — oh, very old, — 
The wild winds weep and rave ; 

The world is old, and grey, and cold. 
Let it drop into its grave ! 



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257 



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When I am dead, my dearest, 

Sing no sad song for me ; 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 

Nor shady cypress tree : 
Be the green grass above me 

With showers and dewdrops wet ; 
And if thou wilt, remember. 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain; 
I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on, as if in pain : 
And dreaming through the twiliglU 

That doth not rise nor set. 
Haply I may remember. 

And haply may forget. 





When shall we come to that delightful day, 

When each can say to each, "Dost thou remember? 

Let us fill urns with rose leaves in our l\Iay, 
And hive the thrifty sweetness for December ! 

For who may deem the throne of love secure, 

Till o'er the Past the concjueror spreads his reign ? 

That only land where human joys endure, 
That dim elysium where they live again I 

Swelled by a thousand streams, the deeps that float 
The bark on wliich we risk our all, should be. 

A rill suffices for the idler's boat : 
It needs an ocean for the argosy. 

The heart's religion keeps, apart from time 
The sacred burial-ground of happy hours : 

The past is holy with the haunting chime 

Qf dreamy Sabbath bells from distant towers. 
259 





Oi't dost thou ask me, with that bashful eye, 
"If I shall love thee evermore as now!" 

Feasting as fondly on the sure reply, 
As if my lips were virgin of the vow. 

Sweet does that question, "Wilt thou love me?" fall 
Upon the heart that has forsworn its will : 

But when the words hereafter we recall, 

" Dost thou remember?" shall be sweeter still. 



^^. 



THE HOLLOW OAK. 

Hollow is the oak beside the sunny waters drooping; 
Thither came, when I was young, happy children trooping ; 
Dream I now, or hear I now — far, their mellow whooping? 




Gay below the cowslip bank see the billow dances, 
There I lay, beguiling time, when I lived romances ; 
Dropping pebbles in the wave, fancies into fancies ; — 





TOM TAYLOR 



"TEN, CROWN OFFICE ROW." 

A TEMrLAR'S TRIBUTE TO HIS OLD CHAMBERS AND HIS OLD CHUM. 

" There is another block of old houses in the Temple now condemned, which arc said 
to be Jiptvards of 200 years old. They form what is called Croum Office Row. Their 
destruction will commence forthwith." — Daily Paper. 

They were fusty, they were musty, they were grimy, dull, and dim, 
The paint scaled off the panelling, the stairs were all untrim ; 
The flooring creaked, the windows gaped, the door-posts stood 

awry ; 
The wind whipt round the corner with a wild and wailing cry. 
In a dingier set of chambers no man need wish to stow. 
Than those, old friend, wherein we denned, at Ten, Crown Office 

Row. 

But we were young, if they were old ; we never cared a pin. 

So the windows kept the rain out and let the sunshine in ; 

Our stout hearts mocked the crazy roofs, our hopes bedecked the 

wall ; 
We were happy, we were hearty, strong to meet what might befall ; 
Will sunnier hours be ever ours, than those which used to go. 
Gay to their end, my dear old friend, at Ten, Crown Office Row ? 

We were two sucking barristers ; briefs few and far between, 

Upon our reading-tables, in their red-tape bands, were seen ; 

But we had friends, and we had books, a pewter, pipes, and weeds. 

And tin enough to pay our way, or credit for our needs ; 

And so we doffed the world aside— gave Father Care to know. 

Go where he might, he must not light at Ten, Crown Office Row. 

Narrow and dark the Clerk's room ; our kitchen 'twas, as well : 
Whence a pleasant sound of frizzling at breakfast time befell ; 

261 






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Narrow and dark the bed-rooms, where wc snored and splashed 

and sung 
Each in his tub, and took the rub of life with sinews strung, 
Where we parted, in the small hours, friends, with a glad "good 

night," 
When the struggling sunshine found us, still friends, at morning 

light : 
Glad morning times, glad midnight chimes, conie back from long 

ago. 
To light the glooms of those old rooms at Ten, Crown Office Row ! 

Those merry Sunday breakfasts — they never could be wrong — ■ 
When you made such famous toast, and 1 brewed the tea so 

strong — 
Were ever sausages like those from Tucker's famous shop? 
Where could the sheep have grazed whose loins produced our 

special chop ? 
And then the lounge and weed, with the Garden green below. 
And the Thames all smile and sparkle, past Ten, Crown Office Row. 

You remember those queer dinners — from the Rainbow and from 

Dicks ? 
That great day of Kabbbs — with fair hands to cut the sticks ? 
How deftly those white fingers on the skewers disposed the meat- 
Till for pleasure in the cooking we scarcely cared to eat — 
I've often since dined a la Riisse, with G. H. M. — but, oh, 
What are his dinners to those meals at Ten, Crown Office Row? 

Those scrambling, screaming dinners, where all was frolic-fun, 
From the eager clerks, who rushed about like bullet out of gun, 
To the sore-bewildered laundress, with Soyer's shilling book. 
Thrust, of a sudden, in her hand, and straightway bade to cook. 
What silver laughs,' what silver songs, from these old walls might 

flow. 
Could they give out all they drank in at Ten, Crown Office Row! 

Some of those tuneful voices will never sound again, 
And some of them will read these lines, far o'er the Indian main ; 
And smiles will come to some wan lips, tears to some sunken eyes, 
To think of all these lines recall of Temple memories ; 
And they will sigh as we have sighed, to learn the bringing low 
Of those old chambers, dear old friend, at Ten, Crown Office Row 

262 



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And one whose voice awaked the song, whose hand aroused the 

strings, 
One of our guests, in those old rooms, even now beside me sings : 
To eat our bach'lor dmner one time she deigned to come. 
And now she smiles my wife, by the hearthstone of our home. 
You too have found a loving mate — ah — well — 'twas time to go — 
No wives we had — 'twas the one thing bad, at Ten, Crown Office 

Row. 

Good-bye, old rooms, where we chummed years, without a single 

fight. 
Far statelier sets of chambers will arise upon your site ; 
More airy bed-rooms, wider panes, our followers will see ; 
And wealthier, wiser tenants, the Inn may find than we ; — 
But lighter hearts or truer I'll defy the Bench to show. 
Than yours, old friend, and his who penned this " Ten, Crown 

Office Row." 




c: 





CHARLES MACKAY. 



STREET COMPANIONS. - 

Whene'er through Gray's Inn porch I stray 
I meet a spirit by the way ; 
He wanders with me all alone, 
And talks with me in under-tone. 

The crowd is busy seeking gold, 
It cannot see what I behold ; 
I and the spirit pass along 
Unknown, unnoticed, in the throng. 






While on the grass the children run. 
And maids go loitering in the sun, 
I roam beneath the ancient trees, 
And talk with him of mysteries. 

The dull brick houses of the square. 
The bustle of the thoroughfare. 
The sounds, the sights, the crush of men, 
Are present, but forgotten then. 



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I see them, but I heed them not, 
I hear, but silence clothes the spot 
All voices die upon my brain. 
Except that spirit's in the lane. 




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He goes with nic througli crowded ways, 
A friend and mentor in the maze, 
Through Chancery Lane to Lincohi's Inn, 
To Fleet Street, through the moil and din. 

I meet another spirit there, 
A bhnd old man with forehead fair, 
Who ever walks the right-hand side 
Toward the fountain of Saint Bride. 

He hath no need of common eyes, 
He sees the fields of Paradise ; 
He sees, and pictures unto mine, 
A gorgeous vision most divine. 



He tells the story of the Fall, 
He names the fiends in battle-call, 
And shows my soul, in wonder dumb, 
Heaven, Earth, and Pandemonium. 



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He tells of Lycidas the good. 
And the sweet Lady in the wood. 
And teaches wisdom high and holy 
In Mirth and heavenly Melancholy. 

With such companions at my side 
I float on London's human tide ; 
An atom on its billows thrown, 
But lonely never, nor alone. 









Here, where the tall plantation firs 

Slope to the river down the hill, 
Strange impulses — like vernal stirs,— 

Have made me wander at their will. 

I see with half-attentive eyes 

The buds and flowers that mark the Spring, 
And Nature's myriad prophecies 

Of what the Summer suns will bring. 



For every sense I find delight — 

The new-wed cushat's murmured tones 

Young blossoms bursting into sight. 
And the rich odour of the cones. 

The larch, with tassels purple-pink, 
Whispers like distant falling brooks ; 

And sun-forgotten dew-drops wink 
Amid the grass in shady nooks. 
266 





KAUI.V SI'UINC. 




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The breeze that hangs round e\'cry bush 
Steals sweetness from the tender shoots, 

With here and there a perfumed gush 
From violets among the roots. 

See — where behind the ivied rock 
Grow drifts of white anemones, 

As if the Spring, in Winter's mock, 
Were mimicking his snows with these. 

The single bloom those furzes bear 
Gleams like the fiery planet Mars ; — 

The creamy primroses appear 
In galaxies of vernal stars ; 

And grouped in Pleiad clusters round, 
Lent-lilies blow — some six or seven : — ■ 

With blossom-constellations crowned 
This quiet nook resembles Heaven. 







0^ 



'THE BACKS," (Cambridge.) 



Dropping down the river, 
Down the glancing river, 
Through the fleet of shallops, 
Through the fairy fleet, 
Underneath the bridges, 
Carved stone and oaken, 
Crowned with sphere and pillar, 
Linking lawn with lawn, 
Sloping swards of garden. 
Flowering bank to bank ; 
'Midst the golden noon-tide, 
'Neath the stately trees, 
Reaching out their laden 
Arms to overshade us ; 
'Midst the summer evens. 
Whilst the winds were heavy 
With the blossom-odours, 
Whilst the birds were singing 
From their sleepless nests : 
Dropping down the river, 
Down the branched river, 
Through the hidden outlet 
Of some happy stream, 
Lifting up the leafy 
Curtain that o'erhung it, 
Fold on fold of foliage 
Not proof against th;: stars. 
260 





DrinkinL; riib_\' claret 
From the silvered " Pewter," 
Spoil of ancient battle 
On the " ready " Cam. 
Ne'er to be forgotten 
Pleasant friendly faces 
Mistily discerning 
Through the glass below : 
Ah ! the balmy fragrance 
Of the mild Havannah I 
Down amidst the purple 
Of our railway wrappers, 
Solemn-thoughted, glorious 
On the verge of June. 

Musical the rippling 
Of the tardy current, 
Musical the murmur 
Of the wind-swept trees, 
Musical the cadence 
Of the friendly voices 
Laden with the sweetness 
Of the songs of old. 







^..^^^1.^^ 



MORTIMER COLLINS. 



THE WAYSIDE WELL. 

Full of beauty is the wayside well, 

Overcanopied with leafage pleasant, 
Where the spirits of coolness love to dwell 
'Mid the heat incessant. 

Here you see the weary wayfarer 

Cool himself beneath the leafy shadow. 
While the long grass scarcely seems to stir 
In the unshaven meadow.* 

Here full often rest the smoking team. 

Toiling movers of the broad-wheeled wagon ; 
Here the vagrant artist stays to dream 
O'er his pocket-flagon. 

Hither also trips the rustic maiden 

Singing blithely through the wind-swept barley 
With her dark red earthen pitcher laden. 
In the morning early. 

Talk of palm-tree shade and Arab lymph 

In the bosom of a green oasis : 
Talk of water which the Naiad nymph 
'Mid dark Tempe places : 

Talk of icy wine Italian quaffed 

In a cave of Pulciano's mountain : 
There is nothing like a joyous draught 
From the wayside fountain. 

* See Spenser's Faerie Queeiie, Book ii. canto v. stanza 30: — 
And fast beside there trickled softly down 
A gentle stream ..... 
The weary traveller, wandering that way, 
Therein did often quench his thirsty heat, 
And then by it his weary limbs display. 
270 



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THE WAYSIDE WELL. 







A CAMEO. 

He sat the quiet stream beside — 
His white feet laving in the tide — 
And watched the pleasant waters ghde 

Beneath the skies of summer. 
She singing came from mound to mound, 
Her footfall on the thymy ground 
Unheard ; his tranquil haunt she found — 

That beautiful new comer. 

He said, — " Aly own Glycerium ! 

The pulses of the woods are dumb, 

How well I knew that thou wouldst come 

Beneath the branches gliding." 
The dreamer fancied he had heard 
Her footstep, whensoever stirred 
The summer wind, or languid bird 

Amid the bouohs abiding-. 



She dipped her fingers in the brook. 
And gazed awhile with happy look 
Upon the windings of a book 

Of Cyprian hymnings -tender. 
The ripples to the ocean raced — 
The flying minutes passed in haste : 
His arm was round the maiden's waist — 

That waist so very slender. 

cruel Time ! O tj'rar.t Time ! 
Whose winter all the streams of rhyme. 
The flowing waves of love sublime. 

In bitter passage freezes. 

1 only see the scrambling goat, 
The lotos on the waters float, 
While an old shepherd with an oat 

Pipes to the autumn breez-js. 



vtsr 



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Salutation to you now, you learned Temple Benchers : 
Falling-off was there, I trow, in your account of trenchers ; 
Falling-off was there of rent, as well as fees and feeding- 
Chancellors ni gemma went elsewhere for legal breeding ! 
Falling-off, my countrymen, was there in chamber-letting, 
Coupled with a falling-off that causes more regretting. 
Empty sets in Temple courts had raised some consternation ; 
Emptiness in Templars calls for louder reprobation. 
But these signs degenerate with satisfaction leave I, 
Seeing now aiispiciiim inelioris cpvi ; 

Seeing now a state of things that promises improvement — 
Manifest machinery for going in a groove meant ; 
Going in a groove exact — smooth — level — rectilinean ; 
Going in the safety groove — Popular Opinion. 



You have got a little nook — every Cockney knows it ; 
Every Cockney picture-book has a print that shows it. 
Gossip-lore (green-spectacled, amiably dozy) 
Pokes and potters oftentimes about that corner cosy, 
Little Cockney girls and boys, with, oh ! such pretty " nusses. 
Play there out of harm's way of the cabs and omnibuses. 
Puzzle-browed, pale, stooping men pace the sunny gravel, — 
Pace, and pace, and, now and then, some hard knot unravel. 

273 




Oh ! but I have loved the spot, any time you'll mention, — 
Since, indeed, I started in the trade of Good Intention. 
When that business hung on hand, then I've left my duty — 
Left "the fever and the fret," and dreamed awhile of Beauty. 
And — when others fled from town to lake and moor and moun- 
tain — 
I have laid my trouble down beside the Temple Fountain. 

Benchers, you are men, as we. You, as we, have haply 

Read the book of Gamp — the book of Pecksniff, and of Tapley ; 

Conned the book of Chuzzlewit, and gathered from its pages 

That for which in vain you'd search a library of sages. 

Knowledge of the kindred life that flows along the highways. 

Throbs with equal pulse, in poor and great and wealthy byways. 

There's a passage in the book to which I have alluded — 

Passage rare ! — which overlook I don't imagine you did. 

Is it not cap. 45, so pleasant, wise and witty.'' — 

Don't you know the cap. as well as any cap. in Chitty .'' 

Is it not, I say, the cap, that fits the "general reader," 

Just as Love to all must hap — clown, lord, and special pleader.' 

Is it not the cap., in short, which one might fairly count an 

Epic upon Friendship, Love, Law, Beauty, and the Fountain ? 

Benchers, guard the spot in which the Fountain flashes brightly : — 

Mr. Abraham, C.E. go find a site less sightly. 

(Mind, no spoiling King's Bench Walk, quadrangle cfuaint, where 

trees are ; 
No pert " elevation " there, in style as dead as Caesar !) 
Be your praise, O Benchers, sung by city-dwelling mortals. 
Long as winged horse and lamb shall decorate your portals ! 
Company in Upper Hall, ye miscellaneous diners, 
Reading men, and rowing men. Queen's Counsel, swells, and 

liners, — 
Pledge me straight the Benchers all, and pledge them in a 

brimmer ; — 
May their lives be gladdened by the Fountain's pleasant shimmer ; 
May their shadows not be less while hereabout they linger, 
Holding friendly button with communicative finger ; 
May the Fountain, ages hence, keep babbling still their praises ; 
Babbling, too, of pastures green, lambs, lovers' walks, and daisies. 



273 



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I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little to^vn, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river : 

For men may come, and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways 

In little sharps and trebles, 

I babble into eddying bays, 
I bubble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks 1 tret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river : 

For men may come, and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling ; 

274 




^^ 





And here and there a foamy llake 

Upon me, as I travel, 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel; 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river : 

For men may come, and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance 
Among my skimming swallows, 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

1 murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars, 

I loiter round my cresses. 

And out again I curve, and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come, and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 



TO THE RE\'. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no gra\-er cares employ, 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter. 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few 

Who give the Fiend himself his due. 

Should eighty thousand College Councils 
Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you; 
275 







Should all our Churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 



Where, far from noise and smoke of town 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-ordered garden. 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You'll have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 
And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

For groves of pine on either hand 
To break the blast of winter stand ; 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 



Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 

And on through zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep. 



We might discuss the northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances, 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 



How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings of the poor 
How gain in life, as life advances 
\^alour and charity more and more. 
276 







Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many and many a happy year. 






277 




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^s-; 



O, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, 
Your London sun is here seen shining brightly : 

The Briton too puts on a cheery face. 

And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly. 

The Romans are a kind and cordial race, 

The women charming, if one takes them rightly ; 

1 see them at their doors, as day is closing, 

More proud than duchesses — and more imposing. 

A fa7' niente life promotes the graces ; — 

They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, 

And in their bearing and their speech one traces 
A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy 

That are not found in more inclement places ; 
Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony ; 

The Cockney met in Middlesex or Surrey 

Is often cold — and always in a hurry. 





Though jar niente is their passion, they 

Seem here most eloquent in things most slight : 

No matter what it is they have to say, 
The manner always sets the matter right. 

27H 






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~-o- 



And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day 

They sweetly wish you " a most happy night." 
Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, 
'Tis always something that they've wished to please you. 

O, come to Rome, nor be content to read 

Alone of stately palaces and streets 
Whose fountains ever run with joyous speed, 

And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets 
Great Memnon's monoliths — or, gay with weed, 

Rich capitals, as corner-stones, or seats — 
The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder 
Old ruins, hiding ruin even older. 

Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches. 
Although the last are commonplace, or florid. 

Some say 'tis here that superstition perches, — 
Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. 

The sombre streets are worthy your researches : 
The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, 

But pleasant sights which squeamishness disparages 

Are missed by all who roll about in carriages. 

About one fane I deprecate all sneering, 

For during Christmas-time I went there daily, 

Amused, or edified — or both — by hearing 
The little preachers of the Ara Cceli : 

Conceive a four-year-old bainbina rearing 
Her small form on a rostrum, tricked out gaily, 

And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful. 

With action quite dramatic and delightful ! 



O come ! we'll charter such a pair of nags ! 

The country 's better seen when one is riding : 
We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags 

At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding 
With giant march (now whole, now' broken crags 

With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsidin 
Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar — 
That melt in light beneath the c\ening star. 
279 





N».L 





A drive to Palestrino will be pleasant — 

The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood ; 

There oft, in goatskins clad, a sun-burnt peasant 
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, 

And seems to wake the past time in the present. 
Fair contadina, mark his mirthful mood, 

No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow 

Can join with jollity your Saltei'ello. 

Old sylvan peace and liberty ! The breath 

Of life to unsophisticated man. 
Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, 

" Per dar' al mio bene^'' When you can, 
Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death 

And Time are grudging of Life's little span : 
Wan Time speeds swiftly o'er the waving corn. 
Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn. 

I dare not speak of Michael Angelo — 

Such theme were all too splendid for my pen. 

And if I breathe the name of Sanzio 
(The brightest of Italian gentlemen), 

It is that love casts out my fear — and so 
I claim with him a kindredship. Ah! when 

We love, thy name is on our hearts engraven, 

As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon ! 



Nor is the Colosseum theme of mine, 
'Twas built for poet of a larger daring ; 

The world goes there with torches — I decline 

Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring, 

Some time in May our forces we'll combine 
(Just you and I), and try a midnight airing. 

And then I'll quote this rhyme to you — and then 

You'll muse upon the vanity of men. 

O come ! I send a leaf of tender fern, — 
'T was plucked where Beauty lingers round decay 

The ashes buried in a sculptured urn 

Are not more dead than Rome — so dead to-day ! 
280 










That better time, for which the patriots yearn, 

Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. 
They wait and pine for what is long denied, 
And thus I wait till thou art by my side. 

Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still 
Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine 

I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, 
I cannot yet thy little hand resign ! 

The plain is fading into darkness chill. 
The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, 

I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee, 

O come to Rome — O come, O come to me ! 



PICCADILLY. 

Piccadilly ! shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze. 
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees. 
By daylight, or nightlight, — or noisy, or stilly, — 
Whatever my mood is — I love Piccadilly ! 

Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming. 
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming. 
And Beauty is whirled off to conquest, where shrilly 
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly ! 

Bright days, when we leisurely pace to and fro. 
And meet all the people we do or don't know, — 
Here is jolly old Brown and his fair daughter Liilie ; 
— No wonder, young pilgrim, you like Piccadilly ! 

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter ! 
She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in a canter : 
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, 
He envies them both, — he's an ass, Piccadilly ! 

Now were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet, 
I would choose me a house in my favourite street : 
281 O o 



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Yes or No — 1 would cany my point, willy, ni 
If "No," — pick a quarrel, if "Yes," — Piccadilly 

From Primrose balcony, long ages ago, 
" Old O." sat at gaze, — who now passes below ? 
A frolicsome statesman, the man of the day, 
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay ; 



No hero of story more manfully trod, 

Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod, 

Heti aiini fugaces ! The wise and the silly, — 

Old P. or Old O. — we must quit Piccadilly. 

Life is chequered, — a patchwork of smiles and of frovvns 
We value its ups, let us muse on its downs ; 
There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other. 
One turn, if a good one, deserves such another. 
These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly, — 
Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly. 

THP: WIDOW'S MITE. 

The widow had but only one, 
A puny and decrepit son ; 

Yet day and night, 
Though fretful oft, and weak, and small. 
A loving child, he was her all — 

The Widow's Mite. 

The Widow's niighf, — yes ! — so sustained, 
She battled onward, nor complained 

When friends were fewer : 
And, cheerful at her daily care, 
A little crutch upon the stair 

Was music to her, 

I saw her then, — and now I see. 
Though cheerful and resigned, still she 

Has sorrowed much : 
She has— He gave it tenderly- 
Much faith — and, carefully laid by, 

A little crutch. 
282 






);ai-i-i,ki> 




A SONG FROM 





Festus. Softly the Mayne river glideth 
Close by where my love abideth ; 
Sleep's no softer : it proceeds 
On through lawns, on through meads, 
On and on, whate'er befall. 
Meandering and musical, 
Though the niggard pasture's edge 
Bears not on its shaven ledge 
Aught but weeds and waving grasses 
To view the river as it passes. 
Save here and there a scanty patch 
Of primroses, too faint to catch 
A weary bee . . . 

The river pushes 
Its gentle way through strangling rushes, 
Where the glossy king-fisher 
Flutters when noon-heats are near. 
Glad the shelving banks to shun, 
Red and steaming in the sun, 
Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat 
Burrows, and the speckled stoat ; 
Where the quick sand-pipers flit 
In and out the marl and grit 
That seems to breed them, brown as they. 
Nought disturbs the rivers way, 
Save some lazy stork that springs, 
Trailing it with legs and wings. 
Whom the shy fox from the hill 
Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 
283 



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:~^ 



Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the north-west died away ; 
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay ; 
Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay ; 
In the dimmest north-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand 

and gray ; 
"Here and here did England help me, — how can I help 

England ? — say," 
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, 
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 



MEETING AT NIGHT. 

The grey sea and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 
Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; 
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
And blue spurt of a lighted match. 
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears. 
Than the two hearts beating each to each ! 



SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES 

PiPPA. The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven ; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled : 
The lark's on the wing ; 
The snail's on the thorn ; 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world ! 
284 








Never any more 

While I live, 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 
Once his love grown chill, 

Mine may strive — 
Bitterly we re-embrace, 

Single still. 

Was it something said,* 

Something done. 
Vexed him ? was it touch of hand, 

Turn of head ? 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun. 
I as little understand 

Love's decay. 

When I sewed or drew, 

I recall 
How he looked as if I sang, 

— Sweetly too. 
If I spoke a word. 

First of all 
Up his cheek the colour sprang. 

Then he heard. 

Sitting by my side. 

At my feet, 
So he breathed the air I breathed. 

Satisfied ! 
I, too, at love's brim 

Touched the sweet : 
I would die if death bequeathed 

Sweet to him. 



* A something, light as air — a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken — 
Oh ! love, that tempests never shook, 
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. 

Moore, "Light cf the Ifa^aiit. 






" Speak, I love thee best ! 

He exclaimed. 
" Let thy love my own foretell," 

I confessed : 
" Clasp my heart on thine 

Now unblamed, 
Since upon thy soul as well 

Hangeth mine ! " 



Would he -loved me yet, 

On and on. 
While I found some way undreamed 

Paid my debt ! 
Gave more life and more, 

Till, all gone, 
He should smile " She never seemed 

Mine before. 

" What — she felt the while, 

Must I think ? 
Love's so different with us men,"' 

He should smile. 
" Dying for my sake — 

White and pink ! 
Can't we touch these bubbles then 

But they break.?" 

Dear, the pang is brief. 

Do thy part, 
Have thy pleasure. How perplext 

Grows belief ! 
Well, this cold clay clod 

Was man's heart, 
Crumble it — and what comes next ? 

Is it God? 



286 




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,^^t%^(^ 




CHARLES F. KENT. 



TWENTY-ONE. 



To-day a Man ! I enter Life, 

And note on either hand 
How the white chapels of young sects 

By grey cathedrals stand ; 
And senate-houses built in stone 

By palaces in sand. 

Brothers ! I ask my right to pass 

Through every open door, 
To span the girth of this thin shaft, 

And test that creaking floor, 
Search out yon dark recess, and lift 

The veil that hangs before. 

I ask, when image-vendors come. 
And press some hero's claim, . 

My right to know if he hath won 
And how deserved his fame : 

Then 'mong my Lares, if I will, 
Refuse to class his name. 
287 




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From childhood's long-lost innocence 

To God's' far-distant shrine, 
Some journey by the banks of Nile, 

Between the unbroken line 
Of Sphinxes linking fane to fane : 

That life-path may be mine. 

If with stunned sense and blistered feet 
I fall where I should stand ; 

If in vain rage and fool's despair 
I strike my clenched hand 

Into the dumbest blankest face 
Among that solemn band, 

And madly strive to rend apart 

Its calm unpitying lips ; — 
Must not tumultuous auguries 

Of Nature's last eclipse 
Herald from each man's Sinai 

His Law's apocalypse? 

Yet if it might be I would choose 

That in my listening brain 
The thunder-voiced mysteries 

Should breathe a peaceful strain. 
And vibrate my attuned heart 

To echo the refrain. 

God knoweth. May He grant that I 

Shall at the last attain, 
If painfully o'er rugged rocks, 

Or gently through the plain. 
The Avorthiest goal of every man, 

To be a child again ! 



.V, 



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28S 






The night's in November : the winds arc at strife : 
The snow's on the hill, and the ice on the mere : 
The world to its winter is turned : and my life 
To its t\\'cnty-fourth year. 

The swallows are flown to the south long ago : 

The roses are fallen : the woodland is sere. 
Hope's flown with the swallows : Love's rose will not grow 
In my twenty-fourth year. 

The snow on the threshold : the cold at the heart : 

But the fagot to warm, and the wine-cup to cheer : 
God's help to look up to : and courage to start 
On my twcntx-fourth year. 

And 'tis well that the month of the roses is o'er ! 

The last, which I plucked for Nerita to wear. 
She gave her new lover. A man should do more 
With his twenty-fourth year 

Than mourn for a woman because she's unkind, 

Or pine for a woman because she is fair. 
Ah ! I loved you, Neraea. But now . . . never mind, 
'Tis my twenty-fourth year ] 



What a thing ! to have done with the follies of youth. 
Ere Age brings ITS follies ! . . . tho' many a tear 
It should cost, to see Love fly away, and find Truth 
In one's twenty -fourth yeai'. 

289 P p 





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The Past's golden vallies are drained. I must plant 

On the Future's rough upland new harvests, I fear. 
Mo, the plough and the team ! . . . who would perish of want 
In his twentv-fourth vear ? 



^A 



Man's heart is a well whieh for ever renews 

The void at the bottom, no sounding comes near : 
And Love does not die, though its object 1 lose 
In my twenty-fourth year. 

The great and the little are only in name. 

The smoke from my chimney casts shadows as drear 
On the heart, as the smoke from \"esuvius in flame : 
And my twent)-fourth )ear. 

From the joys that have cheered it, the cares that have troubled, 

\\'hat is wise to pursue, what is well to revere. 
May judge all as fully as tho' life were doubled 
To its forty-eighth year. 

If the prospect grow dim "tis because it grows wide. 

Every loss hath its gain. So from sphere on to sphere 
Man mounts up the ladder of Time : so I stride 
Up my twenty-fourth year ! 

E.xulting? . . . no . . . sorrowing.' . . . no . . . with a mind 
Whose regret chastens hope, whose faith triumphs o'er fear : 
Not repining : not confident : no. but resigned 
To m\- twenty-fourth \ear. 



^A 



^-^ 



THE CHESS-BOARD. 

My little love, do you remember. 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise. 
Those evenings in the bleak December. 
Curtained warm from the snowy Nveathcr, 
When you and I played chess together, 

Checkmated by each others eyes? 
290 



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I UK i.mi'i:m)Im; (-hlck-mai k. 



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Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. 

Brave Pawns in vahant battle stand ; 
The double Castles guard the wings : 
The Bishop, bent on distant things, 
Moves, sidling, through the fight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 

And falter ; falls your golden hair 

Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field your Queen 
Rides slow her soldiery all between, 

And checks me unaware. 

Ah me ! the little battle's done, 
Dispcrst is all its chivalry ; 
Full many a move since then have we 
'Mid Life's perplexing chec[uers made, 
And many a game with Fortune played, — 

What is it we have won ? 

This, this at least — if this alone ; — 
That never, never, never more, 
As in those old still nights of yore, 

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise) 

Can you and 1 shut out the skies. 
Shut out the world and wintry weather. 

And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, 
Play chess, as then we played, together ! 



^^^ 




f.' 



0y\ 







MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
TO MY FRIENDS, 

^\•]\0 RIDICULED A TENDER EEAVE-TAKING. 

Laugh, my friends, and without blame 

Lightly quit what lightly came : 

Rich to-morrow as to-day. 

Spend as madly as you may. 

I, with little land to stir, 

Am the exacter labourer. 

Ere the parting kiss be dry, 
(2uick, thy tablets, Memory ! 

But my youth reminds me — " Thou 
Hast lived light as these live now : 
As these are thou too wert such : 
Much hast had, hast squandered much." 
Fortune's now less frequent heir. 
Ah ! I husband what's grown rare. 
Ere the parting kiss be dry, 
Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 



Young, I said, "A face is gone 
If too hotly mused upon : 
And our best impressions are 
Those that do themselves repair." 
292 






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Many a face I then let by, 

Ah ! is faded utterly. 

Ere the parting kiss be dry 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory 



Paint that figure's pliant grace 
As she towards me leaned her face, 
Half-refused and half-resigned. 
Murmuring, art thou still unkind ? " 
Many a broken promise then 
Was new made — to break again. 
Ere the parting kiss be diy, 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 

Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind, 

Eager tell-tales of her mind : 

Paint, with their impetuous stress 

Of enquiring tenderness. 

Those frank eyes where deep doth lie 

An angelic gravity. 

Ere the parting kiss be dry. 
Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 

What, my friends, these feeble lines 
Show, you say, my love declines ? 
To paint ill as I have done 
Proves forgetfulness begun } 
Time's gay minions, pleased you see. 
Time, your master, governs me. 

Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry, 
" Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! " 

Ah ! too true. Time's current strong 
Leaves us true to nothing long. 
Yet if little stays with man. 
Ah ! retain we all we can ! 
If the clear impression dies, 
Ah ! the dim remembrance prize ! 
Ere the parting kiss be dry, 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 





KRYAN WALTER PROCTER. 



(BARRY CORNWALL.; 



A PHANTASY. 



Feed her with the leaves of Love, 
(Love, the rose, that blossoms here ! ) 
Music, gently round her move ! 
Bind her to the cypress near ! 
Weave her round and round 
With skeins of silken sound ! 
'Tis a little stricken deer 
Who doth from the hunter fly. 
And comes here to droop, — to die. 
Ignorant of her wound ! 



\^^ 



^QJ>-. 



Soothe her with sad stories, 
O poet, till she sleep ! 

Dreams, come forth with all your glories ! 
Night, breathe soft and deep I 
Music, round her creep ! 
If she steal away to weep 
Seek her out, — and when you find her 
Gentle, gentlest Music, wind her 
Round and round, 
Round and round. 
With your bands of softest sound : 
Such as we at nightfall hear 
In the wizard forest near. 
When the charmed maiden sings 
At the wizard springs ! 
294 



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Sing, maiden, sing ! 

Mouths were made for singing 
Listen, — songs thou'lt hear 

Through the wide world ringing 
Songs from all the birds, 

Songs from winds and showers. 
Songs from seas and streams, 

Even from sweet flowers. 

Hear'st thou the rain, 

How it gently falleth ? 
Hcarest thou the bird. 

Who from forest calleth ? 
Hcarest thou the bee 

O'er the sunflower ringing? 
Tell us, Maiden, noia 

Should'st thou not be singing? 



Hear'st thou the brfeeze 

Round the rose-bud sighing? 
And the small sweet rose 

Love to love replying ? 
So should'st //w/i reply 

To the prayer we're bringing 
So that bud, thy mouth. 

Should burst forth in singins 





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CHARLES DICKENS 



THE IVY GREEN. 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green 

That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed. 

To pleasure his dainty whim : 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green ! 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings. 

And a staunch old heart has he. 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend, the huge oak tree ! 
And slily he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where grim Death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green ! 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed. 

And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days 

Shall fatten upon the past. 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where Time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
296 






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REV. GEO. ROBERT GLEIG. 



MY DOG'S EPITAPH. 

Sleep on, sleep on ! thou gentle one, 
Light lie the turf upon thy breast — 
Thy toil is o'er, thy race is run. 

Sleep on, and take thy rest ! 
In vain for thee were the 'larum note 
Poured from the bugle's brazen throat — 
The rolling drum thou heedest not. 

Nor noise of signal gun. 
Let charger tramp or warrior tread 
Over the place of thy narrow bed — 
They will not wake thee from the dead, 

Thy mortal strife is done ! 

Sleep on, sleep on, thou faithful slave ! 
Unmindful though thy master keep 
His vigils by thy nameless grave, 

And think of thee, and weep ; 
Not even his voice, beloved of yore. 
That stirred thee when the cannon's roar 
Hath failed to rouse, shall rouse thee more 

Out of thy slumbers deep ! 

297 g cj 





No more for thee his whistle shrill 
Shall sound through wood, o'er moor and hill 
Thy cry is mute, thy limbs are still 
In everlasting sleep ! 

Sleep on, sleep on ! no morrow's sun 
Shall light thee to the battle back— 
Thy fight hath closed, thy laurel's won. 

And this thy bivouac. 
On tented field, or bloody plain, 
For thee the watchfire flares in vain — 
Thou wilt not share its warmth again 

With him who loved thee well ; 
Nor when, wdth toil and danger spent, 
He rests beneath the firmament, 
Thine eye upon his form be bent, 

Thou trusty sentinel. 

Sleep on, thou friend and comrade tried 
In battle, broil, and peaceful bower : 
Thou hast left for once thy master's side, 

But never in danger's hour. 
Not thus inactive wert thou laid, 
On that night of perilous ambuscade. 
When levelled tube and brandished blade 

Were at thy master's throat : 
Then fierce and forward was thy bound. 
And proud thy footstep pressed the ground, 
While the tangled greenwood echoed round 

With thy loud warning note. 

Then sleep, though gladly would I give 
Half of the life preserved by thee, 
Could'st thou once more, my comrade, live 

Thy short space o'er with me. 
Vain wish, and impotent as vain ; 
'Tis but a mockery of pain 
To dream that aught may bring again 

The spirit that hath flown. 
But years steal by, and they who mourn 
Another's fate, each in his turn 
Shall tread one path, and reach one bourne,- 

Then, faithful friend, sleep on ! 
298 






WALTER THORNBURY 



EVERLASTING FLOWERS. 

I send thee but a simple gift, 
A little bunch of dry, crisp flowers 
Still rainbow-coloured, though 'tis long 
Since sunshine fed them or the showers. 




Mere phantoms of those thoughts of love 
Whose flying seeds from Eden blew, 
God's hand in pity cast them forth, 
If Talmud legends are but true. 

Dear, promise me that when I'm dead 
You'll press within my clay-cold hand 
These same bright everlasting flowers, 
— I'll bear them through the Silent Land. 

I shall not need remembrances 
Of thee, my own, but still 111 keep 
These always with me through the dim 
Sad shadow of Death's long, long sleep. 

Dark waters, in thy blackest gulf. 
Dark valley, in thy ghastliest cleft, 
I'll guard these flowers, the types of love. 
Though nothing but these flowers be left. 

Come flame, come torture for my sins, 
Or mercy ope the golden portal. 
Still, still I'll grasp those changeless flowers, 
To prove my boundless love immortal. 

God's angels calling me, my soul 
Shall climb to wiser, nobler powers. 
Approving angels' greeting smiles. 
Will hail those everlasting flowers. 
299 






s^. 




FINIS. 

Finis — the fittest word to end 

Life's book, so mystical and solemn ; 

The fiat of a Roman judge ; 

The last stone of the finished column. 

Finis — our thrilling, parting word. 
As standing by the grave we linger, 

And hear the earth fall where the yew 
Points downward with its sable finger. 

Finis — the saddest word of all, 
Irrevocable, changeless, certain ; 

The parting sigh beside the dead ; 

The prompters word to drop the curtain. 





About the sweet bag of a bee P^ig'^ 7 

A feeling sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground 175 

Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 39 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 127 

Ah ! little ranting Johnny IC)6 

All my past life is mine no more . . -^ . 25 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights 131 

Amaryllis T did woo 2 

An hour with thee !— When earliest day 128 

A rose-bud by my early walk 

As after noon, one summer's day 51 

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge 176 

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care 64 

A street there is in Paris famous 218 

At the corner of Wood Street when daylight appears 183 

Away ! let nought to love displeasing . . . . ' 77 

Barley-mowers here we stand 243 

Before the beginning of years 250 

Behind her neck her comely tresses tied 51 

Bird of the wilderness 137 

Born in yon blaze of orient sky loi 

Bright Stella, formed for universal reign go 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly 70 

Celia and I, the other day e2 

Chloris ! yourself you so excel 30 

Christmas is here 221 

Come all ye jolly shepherds 138 

Come from my First, ay, come 149 

Come, let us now resolve at last . . . . ' 33 

301 





Come, when no graver cares employ . Page 275 

Cyriac, whose grandsiie on the royal bench .... ... 15 

Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face 49 

Dear is my little native vale 194 

Dear object of my late and early prayer 106 

Deem not devoid of elegance the sage 93 

Dropping down the river 268 

Ever let the Fancy roam 1 1 1 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see II 

Fairest isle, all isles excelling 34 

Fair pledges of a fi"uitful tree 11 

Farewell ! Farewell ! the voice yoii hear 127 

Feed her with the leaves of Love 294 

Finis — the fittest word to end 300 

Foster ! whose zeal has seized each written page ...;.. 23 1 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 1S5 

Full of beauty is the wayside well 270 

Gather the rosebuds while ye may 10 

Get up, get up, for shame, the blooming morn 13 

Go, lovely Rose : . ; 29 

Go — you may call it madness, folly 193 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed . 108 

Hail ! beauteous strangei: of the grove 91 

Hail ! day of Music, day of Love 201 

Happy and free, seciirely blest 35 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 66 

Hears not my Phyllis, how the birds . . . ; ; 38 

Here, where the tall plantation firs 266 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee 9 

He sat the quiet stream beside 271 

Hollow is the oak beside the sunny waters drooping 260 

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin . . . . ; 220 

How brightly glistening in the sun ...........178 

How is it that before mine eyes 140 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth ....... 16 

How sweet it were, if, without feeble fright 199 

How vainly men themselves amaze 18 

I arise from dreams of thee 114 

I come from haunts of coot and hern 274 





I could loose my boat J^","'' 245 

I VI be a Butterfly, born in a bower 156 

If all that 3'ou adore 247 

If I live to be old, for I find I go do-\vn 44 

If old Bacchus were the speaker 211 

If wine and music have the power 54 

I give my soldier-boy a blade 165 

I have got a certain habit that approacheth to a merit 203 

I have had playmates, I have had companions 135 

I in these flowery meads would be 26 

I met Louisa in the shade 182 

In a drear-nighted December 113 

In Clementina's artless mien 232 

I ne'er could any lustre see ... 107 

In female hearts did sense and merit mie 106 

In London I never know what to be at 125 

In some rude spot where vulgar herbage grows 107 

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars 222 

In winter, when the dismal rain 256 

I send thee but a simple gift . ^ 299 

I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy — a dream 188 

It was not in the winter 170 

I've oft been asked by prosing souls 123 

I wandered by the brook-side 255 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 187 

Jenny kissed me when we met 196 

Just like Hope is yonder bow 103 

Lately on yonder swelling bush 28 

Laugh, my friends, and without blame 292 

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son 16 

Life 1 I know not what thou art 120 

Little bird, with bosom red 88 

Love is by fancy led about , . . . 61 

Love still has something of the sea 37 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 118 

Margarita first possest 4 

May ! queen of blossoms 121 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire 102 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 193 

My banks they are furnished with bees 74 

My dear mistress has a heart 24 

My little love, do you remember 290 

303 



Vi 




My sheep I neglected, I broke my bheep-hook Paf^v 87 

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent 71 

Never any more 285 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the north-west died away . . 284 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 36 

No ! those days are gone away 109 

Now fruitful Autumn lifts his sun-burnt head 145 

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes 3 

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger 17 

O, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place 278 

Of all the girls that are so smart 62 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 97 

Of Time and Nature eldest born 94 

Oft in danger, yet alive 89 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green 296 

Oh never another dream can be 144 

Oh ! the wee green neuk, the sly green neuk 241 

Oh ! what a weary race my feet have run 93 

Oh ! who will over the Downs with me 252 

Oh ye ! who so lately were blithesome and gay 159 

O ! my love's like the stedfast sun 163 

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me 104 

One kind wish before we part 76 

On Leven's banks while free to rove 81 

O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 166 

Orphan hours, the year is dead 115 

O say ! what is that thing called Light 69 

O stay, Madonna ! stay 200 

Our native song, — our native song 248 

Paestum ! thy looses long ago 230 

Parson, these things in thy possessing 66 

Phyllis is my only joy 39 

Phyllis ! why should we delay 30 

Piccadilly! shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze 281 

Resolve me, Chloe, what is this 53 

Salutation to you now, you learned Temple Benchers 272 

School, that in Burford's honoured time 146 

See how the winter blanches 233 

See, whilst thou weep'st, fair Chloe, see 51 

Shall I, wasting in despair . i 

304 




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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Pn^-d 1S3 

She walks in beauty, like the night 117 

She was a phantom of delight 184 

She who hath the gentle soul 209 

Sickness and health have been having a game with me 242 

Sleep on, and dream of heaven 194 

Sleep on, sleep on ! thou gentle one 297 

Softly the Mayne river glideth 283 

Some years ago, ere Time and Taste 150 

Sweet country life, to such unknown 7 

Sweet is the vale where virtue dwells 161 

Take back the Virgin Page 190 

Take these flowers, which, purple waving 128 

Ten years ago, ten years ago 224 

Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 83 

That which her slender waist confined 29 

Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed 96 

The fountains mingle with the river 115 

The grey sea and the long black land 284 

The merchant, to secure his treasure 48 

The night's in November : the winds are at strife 289 

The poplars are felled : farewell to the shade 99 

The pride of every grove I chose 56 

The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower 100 

The stricken deer that in his velvet side 107 

The Sim from the east tips the mountains with gold 82 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain 4 

The town of Passage 235 

The wanton troopers riding by 20 

The widow had but only one 282 

The year's at the spring 284 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 119 

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream 192 

There sits a bird on yonder tree 174 

They were fusty, they were musty, they were grimy, dull, and dim . 261 

This sycamore, oft musical with bees 134 

Thus Kitty, beautiful and young 55 

Timely blossom, infant fair 68 

'Tis believed that this harp which I wake now for thee 191 

'Tis like unto that dainty flower 172 

To all you ladies now at land 41 

To-day a Man ! I enter Life 287 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime 130 

305 R R 



' C^^issf^ mt 3^^ 



Twas on a lofty vase's side Z'''.;'^ 79 

Twelve years ago I made a mock 153 

What ecstasies her bosom fire 58 

What is she writing ? watch her now 1 79 

Whene'er through Gray's Inn porch T stray 264 

When I am dead, my dearest 258 

When I was a school-boy, aged ten 157 

When lovely woman stoops to folly 83 

When maidens such as Hester die 136 

When shall we come to that delightful day 259 

When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented 129 

Whilst I am scorched with hot desire 50 

Whilst in this cold and blustering clime 31 

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place 142 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears 12 

With deep affection 234 

Within a budding grove 239 

Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true 168 

You write and think of me, my friend, with pity 227 





^ V, 




A I.I.INGHAM, William 
Arnold, Matthew . . 

Bailey, Philip James > 
Barbauld, Mrs. . , 
Barham, Richard Harris 
Bayly, Thomas Hayiies 
Bishop, Samuel . , . 
Bi.acklock, Thomas . 
Blanchard, Edmund F. 
Blanchard, Laman 
Bowles, William Lisle 
Bronte, Anne 
Bronte, Charlotte . . 
Brough, Robert B. . . 
Browning, Elizabeth Bar 
Browning, Robert . 
Brummell, Beau . . 
Buckingham, Duke of 
Burns, Robert . . . 
Byrom, John .... 
Byron, Lord .... 



Campbell, Thomas . . 
Carey, Henry 
ClBBER, Colley . 
Coleridge, Samuel Tayh 
Collins, Mortimer . . 
C )LMAN, George, Juri ir 
Cook, Eliza .... 



ett 



239 
292 

241 
120 
174 
156 
96 

94 

247 

172 

188 

178 

179 

203 

211 

2S3 

159 

33 

97 

71 

117 

168 
62 
69 

131 

270 
142 

24S 



Cooper, John Gilbert . P<7o- 


' 77 


Cornwall, Barry . . , 


294 


Cotton, Charles . . . 


31 


Cowley, Abraham . . . 


4 


Cowper, William . . . 


99 


Cunningham, Allan . , 


163 


Darwin, Erasmus . , . 


lot 


Dickens, Charles . . . 


296 


DoDSLEY, Robert . , . 


76 


Dorset, Earl of . . . . 


41 


Dryden, John . . , . 


34 


Elliot, Sir Gilbert . . . 


S7 


Gay, John 


ss 


Gleig, George Robert . 


297 


Goldsmith, Oliver*. . ■ 


83 


Gray, Thomas .... 


79 


Hemans, Felicia D. . . 


140 


Herrick, Robert . . . 


7 


Hogg, James 


137 


Hood, Thomas .... 


170 


Hood, Thomas, the \'outiger 


266 


Hook, Theodore E. . . 


161 


Houghton, Lord . . . 


255 


Howitt, Mary .... 


243 


Hunt, Leigh 


. 196 


Johnson, Samuel . . . 


. 89 



/Vi" 



307 




Keats, John . , 
Kent, Charles F. 

Lamb, Charles 
Landon, Letitia Elizabeth 
Landor, Walter Savage 
Langhorne, John 
Lansdowne, Lord 
Leigh, Henry S. 
Locker, Frederick 
LoCKYER, Stewart 
Logan, John . . 
Lytton, Lord 



Macaulay, Lord 
Mackay, Charles 
Maginn, William 
Mahony, Francis 
Marvell, Andrew 
Meredith, Owen 
Milton, John 
Moore, Thomas . 
Morris, Captain . 



Oldys, William 



Payn, James . . 
Pennell, Henry Cholmon 
Percy, Thomcs . 
Philips, Ambrose 
Pope, Alexander . 
Pope, Walter . . 
Praed, Winthrop Mackwo 
Prior, Matthew . . . 
Procter, Adelaide Anne 



lele 



rth 



135 

144 

230 

88 

61 

242 

278 

209 

91 

259 

200 
264 
165 
233 
18 
289 

15 
190 
123 

70 



268 

7252 

104 

68 

64 

44 
149 

48 
227 



R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, IRINTERS, BREAD STREET HILL 




Prout, Father 
Rochester, Earl of . . 
Rogers, Samuel .... 
Rossetti, Christina . . 

Scott, Sir Walter . . . 
Sedley, Sir Charles . . 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe 
Shenstone, William . . 
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 
Smith, Alexander . . . 
Smith, Charlotte . . . 
Smith, James .... 
Smollett, Tobias George 
Southey, Robert . . . 
SPE.>rcER, William Robert . 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles 250 

Taylor, Tom 
Tennyson, Alfred 
Thackeray, Wm. Makepeace 
Thornbury, Walter . . 
Thurlow, Lord .... 
Trench, Richard Chenevix 
Turner, Godfrey . . • 

Waller, Edmund . . 
Walton, Izaak .... 
Warton, Thomas . . . 
Watts, Alaric Alexander . 
White, Henry Kirke . 
Whitehead, Paul . . . 
Wither, George . . . 
Wordsworth, William . 



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